


Teach Me

by heli0s



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bisexuality, Casual Sex, F/M, First Time, Flirting, Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Masochism, Mutant Reader, Polyamory, References to personality disorder, Romance, Self-Destruction, Sharing, Slow Burn, Sorry it got out of hand and now actually has a huge plot, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 09:09:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 52,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18163268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: There's a lot these old boys don't know about the 21st century. Guess you'll have to teach 'em.Or maybe they'll teach you.





	1. Work, Bitch Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve hits the strip club for the first time on a mission. Lucky for him, you're well-versed and shameless.

Captain America had a job to do.  
Captain America had a mission to complete.  
Steve Rogers, on the other hand... could not stop himself from feeling the coiling spring tightening in the pit of his stomach. He needed to bury it, but over and over, it surfaced, rattling a reminder.

As soon as he heard the details of his current undercover gig, he was shocked. Tony assigned him a mission to take out a weapons dealer who had been recently making waves by selling to local gangs. The weapons they’d seen were high-powered alien technology guns and cannons. The dealer sold out of a damn strip club. Steve was to moonlight as a patron to gain access and extract the dealer. He had heard from you that the back room was sealed by an impenetrable vault door and varying degrees of difficult locks.

You had been assigned a couple of weeks before as a new hostess. Being quite an actress, you played the ditsy young girl on her first foray into the adult industry. It easily made you a few friends who either genuinely tried to help your bumbles or plotted to take advantage of your supposed weakness. It didn’t hurt that you had quite a “talent” for suggestion, which when carefully played, easily lifted secrets.

In the mornings after your shift you would relay information back to base while trying your damndest to shake the glitter loose from your hair.

Steve hounded Tony for days on end about the mission. Why him? Why not Sam? Who had been to many clubs before, who was a less identifiable face, who was absolutely more than happy to waltz into a crowd of sin. Why not Natasha, who could have taken both your jobs to seduce, attack, and extract? Why not just blow the damn place up? Tony dodged smoothly each time, and at the end of every conversation was another crap excuse. It was obvious this one was out of pure entertainment. At Steve’s expense, of course.

Steve pulled the tie loose around his neck and rubbed his chin as he stood in line. The throng of men behind him dressed similarly- business suits and Rolex watches. This was a very high-end place; a few young men were kicked out for upsetting the dress code. As he slipped his entry fee to the bouncer and stepped through the curtains inside, he was greeted immediately by the loud bass and rhythm of club music. The lights were dim with flashes of colors spinning lazily around, a main stage was set up against the far adjacent wall, mirrors lined the edges of each booth, and women were scattered about, dancing, flirting, kissing, in various stages of undress.

He gulped. This was not the 40s.

“Sir, can I take your coat?” A voice reached out to him through the haze.

He didn’t make eye contact. “No, thank you.”

“What about a drink, sir? Should I send a bottle to your table?”

“No, that’s alright. I’m fine.”

He side-stepped a man coming his way, wobbling in stupor as a dancer pulled his arm around her waist. Steve tugged the collar of his jacket and looked toward a large table caged off by velvet ropes. His target must be back there.

“Sir, it’d be my pleasure to serve you, can I get you a seat?” The same woman’s voice came closer to him. He felt a hand on his back.

“No, no please, I don—“

“Sir,” the voice whispered in his ear, suddenly vibrating deep inside his head.  
“You need to relax.”

Steve whipped around and gazed into your piercing eyes. You were smiling, but the edge of your mouth was sharp. Suddenly he felt a strange sense wash over him, and the tight muscles of his jaw loosened slowly.

“_Name_,”  
You pressed a finger to his lips.

“Sir, my name is Jane, and it’d be my pleasure to accompany you this evening. Please follow me.” You held a small right hand out to him and firmly grasped his wrist. Steve shuffled forward, feeling the effects of your words take hold on him. His breath evened as his lids became heavy, blinking purposefully through the wafting clouds of fog and spotlight patterns. You felt his hand relax and smiled as you turned the corner to an empty circular booth with a long table in front. Motioning for him to slide in, you drew the heavy curtain around in a long sweeping motion and shut it. Outside, there was a cacophony of conversation, cheering, music, heels—inside, there was only Steve’s soft breath. You ran one hand through your long curls and set down the tray in the other with a clatter.

It snapped him from his reverie.

“_Name_!” he gasped, as if seeing you for the first time. You quickly put a hand up to silence him.  
“Remember, it’s Jane.”  
“Did you charm me?”

You nodded in reply, checking your watch. “How do you feel?”

He put his head in his hands before rolling his head slowly, cracking the joints in his neck.  
“Much better, thank you. This… isn’t my usual environment.”

“No shit. Come here. I only have 5 minutes; I’m a hostess, not a dancer, and I can’t spend too long with you in this booth.” You slid over in the seat, the leather squeaking against your bare thigh. Your teammate blinked absentmindedly as you deftly popped open the first two buttons of his white dress shirt.

“You’ve got… bunny ears on.”  
“Thanks, Sherlock.”

A dark blush crept up his neck at the retort as he found himself vexed into silence. It turned into an opportune moment to notice your strapless black one-piece bodysuit, accented by a mesh bustier. The ribbons pulled taut to cinch your waistline and tied in a neat bow at the small of your back, resting above a fluffy pinned cotton tail. You wore black socks that reached mid-calf, feet tucked into platform heels, leaving open the expanse of your thighs.

You were busy at work. He watched as you took a thumb to smear your red lipstick on his collar and fist the neatly pressed edges of his shirt until it no longer snapped back flat.

“Pardon my reach, Cap”

His brows raised when both of your hands found themselves in his hair, tousling the blonde locks until they were mussed. Steve instinctively dipped his head so that you could reach the back, suddenly finding his gaze directly against the dip in-between your collarbone. The coil in his stomach gripped against him.

Steve let out a shuddering breath so quiet he prayed it would go unnoticed. As snarky as you could be at times, he hoped this would be the one moment you’d forgive him for.  
A chuckle arose from your throat as you twisted a sandy lock around your pointer. Apparently, he was wrong.

“Captain….” you drawled, raising an arched brow. Your bright red lips cracked into a devilish grin.  
There it was again- that spring. You were going to snap it right in half.

“Don’t tell me it’s your first time?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This started as a shameless smut one-shot about virgin!Steve being shown the ropes, but I think it's definitely evolving into... much more. ;) As you've read, the reader's power is "charming", so spoken-word suggestions and the like.


	2. Work, Bitch Pt. 2

At the Avengers compound, Tony Stark twirled a pen in his left hand. His night of research had stalled, simply because he could not keep his mind from wandering.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bruce piped up from behind him, tapping furiously on his keyboard. Tony spun in his chair two times exactly before kicking a leg out and finding Bruce’s concerned gaze resting on him.

“Well, as you know,” Tony began, placing the pen in his hand now into the corner of his mouth, “Our very own _Name_ is on a mission, right? I sent her to scope out the place with the alien guns—she’s very prepared, that girl. Been sending me loads of stuff.”

“Yes, that’s what we’re working on now. I’m staring at the plans for a rifle that _melts_ people, Tony.”

“I know, I know. It’s dangerous business, blah blah. Anyway, I sent Capsicle this evening, around 8 to begin extraction,”

Bruce stared intently, fingers slowing down. “Are you worried about them?”

“It started as a prank, you know, on Cap. That’s why I chose _Name_. I mean, The Widow could have done it just as well but… I figured you wouldn’t be too happy with me if I sent her there,”

Bruce stopped typing. There was a lump in his throat at the vague idea that Tony was about to uncover something incredibly horrible. If it was a dangerous enough place for Bruce to be unhappy with Natasha going, where could he have sent the two of you?

“What are you saying, Tony?”

Tony chewed on his pen and slowly spun one more time in his chair, landing a wolfish grin on Bruce.

“It’s a strip club.”

“Jesus, Tony! You sent Captain America to a strip joint?!” Bruce let go of a shuddering breath, feeling hot under the collar and gripped with guilt. Tony had convinced everyone that it was a simple mission that was-in his words- “totally chill”, so no one really asked questions. But now that he’d discovered the truth, Bruce couldn’t help but feel apologetic for even knowing anything about it. He swallowed, trying to clear his dry throat. _Name_ would do just fine wherever she went, but Captain America was strictly a PG-13 kind of showing.

Bruce popped the lid off his water bottle and took a few gulps.

“Hey, Brucey, there’s something I’ve always wondered about. Y’know, all those years spent as a little twerp and then boom, huge guy in wartime. And then 70 years frozen solid…”

“Mm?”

“You think he’s a virigin?”

Bruce immediately sputtered water all over their work.

* * *

 

Leather squeaked underneath Steve’s legs as he shifted uncomfortably. You’d sent him off to a table that had a better view of the target- or so you claimed. Objectively, yes, you had been right; his seat was halfway across the room and obscured. However, it seemed like the spot he was at only continued to grow livelier as dancers made their rotation. Already, two popular girls had come through and carried a throng of customers with them.

Steve looked up as the fringe of a very small g-string shook over his head.  
He wanted to die on the spot.

“Give her the dollar, Cap,”

The earpiece he handed off to you was being used, at least.

“Give her the dollar or she’ll never leave; that’s how it works.”

“C’mon man! Stop hogging the girl!” A voice yelled at Steve over the music. A pink light shone in his eye before twirling away. He fumbled in his pocket for a bill before quickly pressing it into the dancer’s palm, trying to blink through the after-image. She giggled and crawled back to the other side of the stage, giving him quite a view of her behind.

He could hear your chuckle, “Good job. Now drink your beer.”

Another dancer joined the small stage and began to sashay around the pole, dragging her hand up and down seductively. The two women circled each other before turning around and sliding to their knees, shaking their plump bottoms together. Steve glanced to the jeering men as they threw dollars forward.  

There was going to be a very cold shower waiting for him tonight. His pants were starting to feel very tight.

One of the dancers hopped off the stage to sit in a man’s lap. His hands roamed over her body in appreciation. Steve gasped when he buried his face in her chest and she squealed in delight.

“You like the show?” The dancer called out to him. “I can come over too.”

While shaking his head furiously, he heard your voice, “Anton’s been talking to this guy for about half an hour now. I think they’re about to close a deal so it’s only a matter of time before they head into the vault. Sip your beer.”

He did.

“Once they start moving, we will too. There are about 5 guards with Anton, and this guy brought only 3. Our main task is timing this correctly before they shut the door. Anton can live in his vault for a couple of weeks and if we spook him, he’s going to seal it and blow our cover.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m working. You enjoy yourself, we’ve got some time.” Steve heard the loud clatter of a bottle being opened on the side of a table- your favorite trick. Applause followed. He could practically see you do this little performance where you pretend to have lost the bottle opener and look around before winking and saying “Well, I guess this’ll have to do… might get messy, boys.” Usually it took most people a couple of slaps on the cap before it sprang free, but you’d always get it on the first try. It also gave you great joy to sneak in a shake or two and spray your audience with beer. You were quite a hit at Tony’s parties, so it made perfect sense that you’d get assigned this mission.

The charm you cast on him was fading, but the exposure to that feeling lingered and Steve found himself more at ease naturally. A hostess came by with a tray and served him another beer along with an invitation to accompany him. He declined and gave her a tip before sliding another bill forward on the stage.

“Gentleman!” a booming voice roared. The music skidded to a halt, skipping beats before a new tune came over the speakers, banging a fast pulse. “And now for your first show of the night!” The music grew louder as the lights dimmed, all spotlights converging on a center stage, blinking to the rhythm of the song.

“Feast your eyes on the lovely, talented, exquisite…. Miss Heaven! She’ll be dancing to Work, Bitch… and she’s going to show you exactly how she works it!”

A raspy purr of a female voice began to sing. In his ear, Steve could hear your laughter, singing along.

_You wanna…  
You wanna…_

_  
_ The dancer marched out on stage. Her clear 5 inch platforms thumped to the music.

 _You wanna hot body?_  
 _You wanna Bugatti?_  
  
She was covered in rhinestones that flashed with every hit of the lights and came to a dramatic halt by doing the splits right as the first beat dropped. Steve’s jaw slacked as she bounced her ass to each pounding note before lying down and pulling herself up with the pole stationed next to her.

“Alright, Captain, it’s show time.”

_You better work, bitch!_

Steve looked to the dark booth and saw two large bodyguards move the velvet ropes aside, tilting their heads forward. Following their gaze, he saw a man across the floor open a door before stepping backwards, leaving just a tiny sliver of light to peek from the crack. Ten feet away from that very door, you were sitting in someone’s lap, laughing and pouring a beer down his throat. As the man leaned back to swallow, you caught Cap’s eye. He shuffled to his feet, steadily making his way through the room and towards you. When he was three steps away, you slinked backwards with your tray out of reach of the crowd.

“That’s a hallway. It takes 30 seconds to walk into the big room through a sliding door. 5 seconds to punch in the vault key. Vault swings open. 10 seconds to step in. 10 seconds to shut. We need to be in there right when that code gets punched.”

Steve raised his eyebrows in appreciation at your thorough data.

Anton went into the door first, then buyer, then their guards. Then the door clicked shut. By the time you both reached it, he counted 23 seconds. Sending you a knowing look and seeing your quick nod.  
  
_Bring it on_  
 _Ring the alarm_

You tore your way down the hall with Steve following on your heels. There was one guard left at the end of the hallway and before he could put his hand on his gun, you had already launched forward, smashing your metal tray into his arm and pinning him. Steve was behind you, slamming the heel of his palm into the guard's nose, knocking his head against the wall. You were already in the next room. Steve reflexively grabbed the tray and darted through the opening.

_Don’t stop now just be the champion_   
_Work it hard like it’s your profession…_   
_Watch out now cause here it comes!_

Muffled, from their previous entrance, he could still hear the music pounding. The men in the room turned to seek the cause of the commotion, but it truly was too late. Anton was at the keypad, the buyer cowering behind him, screaming and pointing.

“ _Here comes the smasher_!” You were positively delighted as you howled along. A sharp kick of your stilettos sent the first man tumbling backwards, gun firing off and hitting a man adjacent from him.

Six left.

Steve swung his own powerful fist into the face of the nearest man, knocking the weapon away.

Five left.

“ _Here comes the master_!” You sprinted at the next target, dodging a bullet as you slipped low beneath his right side but not before grabbing hold of his tie.

Four left.

“ _Here comes the big beat_!” As he crashed face-first into the floor, you used the momentum of the swing and reeled toward your next opponent. “ _Big beat disaster_!” Two strong thighs squeezed the bodyguard’s neck as you grabbed his head in your hands and twisted with a deafening crack.

Three left.

The vault door swung open and you were off in chase of the two scrambling to get inside. Steve took on the responsibility to take care of the last three guards, after all, you had him a bit riled by taking care of five so deftly. It was fluid like a dance, and the realization of a burning was building inside. He’d been on missions with you before, but it took this moment for him to realize that neither of you had fought together. You’d always been split up. Training room drills or reading mission reports never gave any hints to your… energy, if that was even the right word. You never let it show that dormant beneath your efficient professionalism was a simple _pleasure_ for the fight.

But this wasn’t the time to pore over his appreciation of a teammate.

Gripping the metal tray still in his hand, Steve threw it sideways into the neck of the third bodyguard and followed up with a hard elbow to the sternum. Dodging bullets, he ran towards the far wall of the vault, seeking a corner to make a quick turn. The last two men circled him, pointed their guns, and took aim.

Two single shots rang out before their bodies dropped.

Captain America landed on his feet and looked back at the vault door where you stood. The buyer was knocked unconscious. Anton was in your grasp, struggling uselessly. You had him turned around pressed against you in a hold, neck squeezed tight inside the hollow of your elbow, mouth opening and closing gasping for air like a fish out of water. Your left hand held a gun, pointing in Cap’s direction.

“Who- who-“ Anton’s quivering babble was cut off by a squeeze.

“Don’t interrupt Britney Spears, Anton.”  
Anton went docile in your arm, and Steve was unsure if that was the result of your charm, or simply, fear.  
The gun clattered pitifully on the floor and you held one finger up to the lobe of your ear, leg bouncing, listening for that final lyric. Steve felt that hot coiled spring resurface again as you broke out into a wide grin.

_You better work, bitch._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I *am* talking about the Britney Spears "Work, Bitch" song. Of course it's the perfect banger at a strip club!
> 
> Let me know what you think! I'd like to give this work a bit of a slow(er) burn. At first I was very much on a whirlwind to crank out quite a lot of smut, but I do like to build tension up to a relationship (or in this case... er, multiple relationships).


	3. Discretion and Indiscretion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve learns a little more about you over a few glasses of wine.

It was a little past 2 A.M. before Steve was able to leave the club. Once Anton had been snatched, he called for extraction. The club was cleared out and Tony swooped in and flew both the boss and his arsenal of weapons back to headquarters for questioning and processing. The Captain was tasked with the write-up. You were discharged to return to the compound, but refused, choosing instead to stay at the apartment Tony had rented out when you were assigned this mission.

“I like it.” You had shrugged, “Sometimes the compound can be… annoying. The months’ rent is already paid, so I’d really like to take advantage of it.” It was only a couple of blocks down, but Steve insisted he would walk you there. Besides, a girl walking home alone this time of night might end up badly, especially dressed as you were.

“Not that it’d be your fault- women can wear what they choose! That doesn’t give anyone the right to harass them!” Your teammate earned a pointed look from you.

“Huh,” you mumbled, walking beside him and drawing his suit jacket close to your body, “I guess it makes sense you’re rather progressive.” He laughed, unsure if it was a compliment or not, watching you tuck your chin to your chest absentmindedly and breathe a deep inhale of the jacket’s lapel. He gazed at the sky bashfully; it should have been dark, but the lights of New York made it look like dusk. He felt a small knot in his chest, feeling strangely self-conscious.

Looking sideways, Steve could see your eyes lazily staring ahead. Your sudden dip in energy had him a little concerned, but it was late anyway, and he knew from the few years that he’d known you that you were a rather reticent person. Well, were you? The realization suddenly dawned on him that perhaps he didn’t know anything about you at all. Today was a reminder of that truth; he knew even less about you than he knew Natasha, and she kept secrets for a living.

The two of you walked in silence down the street, yawns arising from both of your mouths. Steve held the heels you were sporting in his hand. He had a lot of questions, honestly, and not all of them were meant for you. Some of them were definitely for Tony (“What are you planning?”) some were for Natasha, (“Have you guys worked together before?”), and at least a few exclamations were reserved for Bucky (“Buck, it took 1 minute! Buck, I’ve never seen anything like it!”).

The questions he had for you could wait. Maybe.

Your feet came to a stop at the front of a narrow set of stairs that lead to a metal door. It was the entrance of your studio. You tugged off the white bunny tail from your backside and used the safety pin to tear a hole in it. A single key slipped into your palm and you quietly pressed the jagged edges into the lock. As if suddenly remembering he was there, you turned and blinked owlishly at him.

“Hey,” you said, turning the knob. Your companion blinked back. “Wanna come in?’

If someone were to ask him what the deciding factor on his leaning towards agreement, Steve wouldn’t have been able to answer. Perhaps it was the prospect of not having to walk back to the compound or hail a cab. Maybe it was also the lingering fog of curiosity about who you were in private. It certainly helped that your invitation was quite unassuming, rolling off your tongue like you’d just thought of it that second and blurted it out. You had assured him that he’d be able to do the report on your laptop (everything was encrypted and safe), and that you’d make him a cup of tea. Steve thought about what an invitation inside might mean at 2 in the morning, but you seemed to have read his mind and waved your hand back and forth with a commanding: “Not like that.”

He agreed.

The apartment was relatively barren, but comfortable enough. The door led right into an open space with a full-sized mattress atop a simple metal frame on the left side. There was a small nightstand in the corner next to the bed with an alarm clock and lamp. Shoes peeked out from underneath as well as a metal briefcase. On the right side next to the window was a small wooden table with two chairs. His eyes followed the window to a kitchen space before settling on a tiny door in the back. That was likely the restroom. The kitchen area was separated by the bedroom area by a railing that held a heavy drawn-back curtain.

You opened another door next to the entrance and hung up Steve’s coat. There were various tactical suits and casual clothes inside.

“You’re welcome to sit on the bed,” you offered, “The chairs look a little small for you.”

He declined, politely, saying that he wouldn’t mind at all sitting in the chairs. As progressive as he was, Steve thought, there was just something crass about sitting on a woman’s bed the first time you come over. You pulled out your laptop, booting it up and inputting the password. Steve got to work on the report as you poured a glass of wine and put the kettle on.

The clock read 2:30 AM. After fishing out the teabag and setting the cup down on the table, you looked over Steve’s shoulder, reading bits and pieces of the report. You were hoping he wasn’t divulging too much about the details of the job, and as expected, he didn’t. You smiled, glad after-all that Captain America was your partner this time. It’s not like he could have written that you were bare ass on someone’s lap but leave out the extremely close encounters he had with multiple pairs of breasts. If you were working with Sam, on the other hand, the night might have ended up very differently. Instead of writing the report back here, Sam might have been typing in a VIP room.

“I’m gonna take a shower. You need anything else?”

“No, thanks. This is great.” Steve heard a cork squeak back into the bottle it came from.

“You’re welcome, move that comma over.”

He gladly did so and watched you retreat into the bathroom- glass in hand.

“You’re taking that with you?”

“Oh yes,” You practically purred, “Sweet red blend, come to mama.”

 

An hour later, Steve was finalizing the report. You sat across from him sipping your third glass, dressed casually in soft shorts and a plain t-shirt, damp hair draped to one side and browsing silently on your phone. One of your legs was pulled up for your arm to rest on. The wine was relaxing, but you didn’t want to go to bed with company still here. Tomorrow was your day off, anyway, since the hostess gig was officially over, and Tony hadn’t commanded your presence yet. Finally, after a long stretch from him and multiple popping noises from his back, Steve pulled the top of the laptop down closed.  

He gazed at you, watching the light from your screen illuminate your features, catching the smallest hint of a smile on your lips.

“Can I ask you something?” He was dipping his toes in the water.  
“Mmmhm?” You were still fixated on the screen, chin dropping down to meet your knee, other hand’s thumb typing a leisurely text.  
“How does it work?”

You looked up into his eyes and hit send before crossing both your arms under your chin. Steve’s head was cocked to one side, genuine curiosity alight in his stare. You knew he’d read your file before, full of jumbled up words of scientific jargon about your powers from birth. There were all sorts of tests that were run after you were recruited. He’d seen the paperwork.

But you knew why he was probing now. You charmed him for the first time at the club. It always feels funny at first.

“What did it feel like to you- earlier?” You questioned in return. It wasn’t like you could really answer that so outright; you frankly didn’t know how it worked, it was just always something you could do. Steve’s question was an all-encompassing incursion for information that might not really exist. What you could provide him was a road that possibly led to something enlightening, even if it wasn’t quite what he was looking for.

He rolled his bottom lip in between his teeth, “Like… a suggestion...”  
You nodded.  
“It was like a suggestion that latched on and didn’t let go.” He seemed to be sure of it.

You continued to watch as his eyes looked in investigation around the edges of his vision, from left to right, as he tried to remember the feeling.

“I felt like something was leading me to a sensation that one moment was a possibility, and then the next, reality. Is… that close to right?”

You shrugged, sitting back in your chair, putting both feet down and accidentally brushing up against his leg. A peculiar sensation journeyed up from your touch, running its course through his body. “It felt like the reality was still yours to experience and be a part of even if you weren’t entirely in command, right?”

The green flecks in his blue eyes searched your face for recognition, “Yes.”

“That’s all it is.”

Steve wasn’t quite sure he understood.

“The charm is, more or less, a trick. It’s not a vice grip of control, and I don’t try to exert my power in that way over anyone. I don’t want to get into the psychology of anything- I’m not… an expert, I can only tell you what I think and what I gather from using it. You’ve read my report, but there’s a lot missing that can only be _felt_.”

He nodded along, watching your features change over each word.

“The human brain is… amazing. Your brain can convince your body of so many things- psychosomatic illness, for example, or all of those cases of people suffering brain injuries and waking up speaking a foreign language. There’s so much we don’t know about it.”

He agreed.

“My charm, as we call it, tricks your brain into believing what I say is the truth. And then your body acts accordingly. It has its limits, of course, and there’s a lot I don’t know about it because… well, I’ve never tried.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

You chewed on your bottom lip and took a large swig of wine, emptying the glass. “Yes, but… it’s not right.”

Steve’s lips parted, but you cut him off.

“Steve, when I was 16 I met a man who could do what I could do.” Your tone became serious. “It was a complete accident, but I was at a café in Hell’s Kitchen and saw a man and a woman sitting outside. I remember thinking that she looked very nice, but something sad must have happened to her.”

You remembered this as if it happened yesterday. You could still smell the chai tea in your cup, hear the voices on the street, feel the daylight being soaked into your skin.

“He’d tell the waiter to do something, and they’d do it. Of course, that’s what waiters do. At first I just thought I was imagining it, but when the waiter came back with the check, the man told him to throw it away… and he did. When the table next to him glanced over, he told them to get out of his sight, and they immediately walked behind him and down the street.”

“And the woman?” Steve asked,

“The woman saw me looking, and she smiled. But her eyes were empty. There was this desperate look that flicked across her face for just barely a second. And I knew, Steve, that she was not in control. It was him. I dropped my bag when I walked by just to see what might happen, and he told me to walk into traffic.”

Your heart felt like it was sinking into your stomach and melting in the acid as you rambled on, drunk on red wine and torn open like a shitty, expository book. Steve’s fists clenched.

“I heard this, inside of my brain, this huge, inescapable echo that dug itself deeper and deeper inside of me, like a burrowing worm that would eat me up if I didn’t do it. I had to do it. I just had to. Even when I screamed at myself and said I’d rather be eaten than do it, I couldn’t stop walking.”

Steve’s eyes widened. His hands were now clamping the edge of the table in a vice grip, knuckles turning white. You began to peel his fingers from the wood, and he relented.

“The further I got away from him, the better I felt. When I reached the curb, I could stop myself. I don’t think that’s how it worked for anyone else. That lady’s body showed up in the paper a week later in an apparent suicide, there was no mention of the man.”

“It changed you.”

You nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

His large hand took yours. He held on tight, as if letting go would surrender you to your darkness. His heart hurt for the child you were.

“I had been using this ability my entire spoiled life, but that was the day that I understood that I needed to control it, to be more aware and mindful of using it. I didn’t want to… be… him. The slope is, very, very slippery.”

“You won’t be like that. I promise.”

You smiled, standing up slowly and walking over to him with a slight sway. Steve let go a breath he didn’t know he was holding as you entwined your fingers in his, dropping both your hands to graze your thigh. He was lightly tugged to his feet before you wrapped both your hands around his waist and buried your face against his chest, resting your forehead along the dip in his collarbone.

“Sorry I did that at the club. Sometimes it’s reflexive and I should have asked.” Your lips brushed against him.  
“It.. it’s okay.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. He hadn’t minded at all; if anything, he really needed that charm. “I didn’t feel like you were forcing me to do anything- it’s a suggestion, remember?”

Steve’s breath caught in his throat as you turned your head up, peering at him with wide doe eyes brimmed with tears, nose pink. Red veins ran from the edge of your tear ducts. The heat radiating off your body was catching his own, as if his nerves were becoming the kindling to a fire.

“It’s a trick, Steve. Don’t forget, tricks can be bad too.”

You stood on your tip toes, softly pressing his cheek with one palm and kissing the other. It was both thankful and apologetic, and you saw the flutter of his eyelashes before turning away.

“You’re welcome to stay. I do have an.. early appointment in the morning so I’ll be leaving around 9. Don’t wait up, please.”

He watched you retreat to your bed and climbed in afterward, turning off the light. The swirl of emotions in him were confusing and aching. As he slipped in behind you, facing your back, a strong arm snaked its way over your waist and pulled you close. Your breathing was growing long and deep as you drifted further and further away. Steve thought about the throb he felt gnawing all night- it had transformed from something primitive and physical to something else, different, resembling tenderness. He thought about the woman who had so mercilessly terminated targets, the woman who seemed to revel in violence, the woman who teased him at the club for his inexperience. She was fading from his mind and being replaced by the one who sat with one leg up in pajamas, divulging her horrors, the woman who held onto him, the woman pressed to him now, sighing softly into the darkness.

 

 

When he woke at 8:30, you were already gone. It was unusual of him to sleep in so late but maybe the comfort of sharing a bed with someone was just that soothing. As he slipped on his shoes, he noticed a note stuck to the back of the door. He read your winding cursive script with the vague thought that you had lovely handwriting.

_Thanks for listening to me. Let’s keep it between us for now. Let me know when you leave._

He punched in a quick message to you and closed the door behind him. Deciding on getting a cup of coffee before returning to the compound, he stopped by a café a few blocks down and sat by the window checking his phone for any missed e-mails or texts.

Across the street was a little open market where the morning sunlight danced over the stalls. Steve watched a woman walk her dog by, pausing to pick up a bouquet of flowers. A child held onto his father’s hand as they purchased a bag of fruit together. Vendors were waving their signs and calling out to passing patrons. Steve replied to a text from Bucky asking him about missing the morning jog and looked across the street again. Taking a sip from his cup, he almost sputtered when he saw you entering the fringe of the crowd, head down and texting on your phone. You were wearing a large brimmed sun hat and sleeveless yellow dress. Admittedly, you looked very pretty, and he stopped himself from thinking any further on that.

An alert on his own device popped up.

_Okay. I’ll be back later to the compound. Tony asked me to look over your write-up. Want to go for a run afterwards since we both missed our morning routines?_

A smile danced over Steve’s face as he continued to watch you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. He felt a bit mischievous, almost voyeuristic as you continued to look at your screen, the three dots appearing as he typed a slow message. Steve could see a little smirk form on the edge of your lips as you waited for his response.

Suddenly, you pushed the phone in your handbag and turned around, surprised when a hand caught your shoulder.

Steve stopped typing as a lump sprouted in his throat.

A young man had walked up behind you, pulling you in for a deep kiss. He was tall and had dark brown hair, combed back neatly. Steve had never seen him before. You were laughing now, pulling away before leaning back in. One, two, three kisses. The man descended to nip at your neck and you swatted him away flirtatiously. He tugged you from the crowd and hailed a cab. Soon after, both you and him had disappeared from the street back towards the direction of your apartment.

The indescribable lump in Steve’s throat grew larger.  
Promptly, Steve erased the text he had been typing and put his phone away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! A bit of an emotional chapter! For those of you who have watched Jessica Jones, yes I am referring to Kilgrave. He will not be showing up in this story, but will be referenced to when speaking of the reader's powers and used as a comparison point.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I mentioned it before, but the story is definitely growing into something... huge. I'm certainly afraid for myself.  
> There will be tags and information added on the further it goes.  
> Just for your knowledge, please keep in mind that the reader will identify as being sexually fluid, and if you may be uncomfortable with that, this might not be the fic for you! The ending pairing will be Steve/Reader/Bucky, but the journey towards that ending will take a lot of detours and ... backwoods roads. :) Cheers!


	4. Tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky share a conversation about you.

Bucky hadn’t seen Steve all day and the last text he’d sent sat un-replied in his inbox. It was making him feel a bit cranky, to be honest. Of course he could go jogging on his own, train on his own, and fuck off doing whatever else on his own, but it wasn’t like Steve to be so nondescript. Bucky wondered if virtuous Captain America became a bit preoccupied after the mission. Tony finally did announce the truth of the assignment to the team after they had unloaded the jets and Bucky zip-tied a well-dressed, albeit terrified man from the aircraft. The two scientists had been holed up all night and morning, but not before bringing to light that yes, it was the same mission they’d sent _Name_ on, the nice club was actually a nice _strip_ club, and yes, Captain America saw a _lot_ there. Then the two disappeared to the quietude of their workshop, dragging the target.

It brought a round of chuckles from the rest of the Avengers and a pathetic whine from Sam. Bucky couldn’t help but linger on some of those guns, and noticed Natasha had the same kind of ideas.

“Think Cap’s out painting the town red?” Bucky muttered  
“I doubt it.” She replied, “But _Name_ might be,” They shared a dry laugh.

 

It was past noon when Cap finally stepped into the compound, marching off to his room and closing the door without another word. Bucky huffed, face twisting into a disdainful look towards the dark hallway leading from the kitchen.

Shoving the remaining half of the BLT in his mouth, the Winter Soldier snatched his water bottle from the counter and walked silently towards the door, breezing by Vision and Wanda sharing a meal. Well, Wanda was eating, and Vision was keeping her company.

“Everything alright, Sargent Barnes?” Vision asked.  
“Yeah.” Came the grunt of reply  
“Would you like me to spar with you? You seem like you need to… what’s that saying, ‘blow off some steam’?”

Wanda chewed on her salad pensively, eyeing Bucky up and down. With a shake of his head, he continued towards the training area, squirting a gulp of water down his throat. He was feeling rather punchy, but fighting Vision wasn’t what he had in mind. Flyers generally gave him more trouble than they were worth, and Vision’s talents were also ranged, something he could only return with ammunition. Bucky turned a corner, walking past the indoor pool where Natasha was swimming laps. Sparring with her was generally avoided unless it she requested. He didn’t feel right about it, anyway, her being only human and all. Running through the list of his teammates, it always became annoyingly obvious who his only true companion could be: Steve. Bucky could never accidentally hurt Steve like that during a match; Steve and him were two sides of the same coin. The forces they’d inflict on each other were always equal.

He stopped at the entrance of the gym, walking past the doorway and heading into an area with punching bags and boxing equipment. The glass windows saw the expanse of green field on the west side of the base, where the large track was. In the distance, he saw the figure of someone jogging closer, approaching the outer entrance to the gym. Bucky set down the bottle and stretched his arms, flexing his fingers and neck. He reached for the wraps in the caddy on the floor and began the process of preparing both his fists, even the metal one. It would really be a pain for the material of his hand to cut through a bag. Jesus, all that sand…

The door slid open with a hiss and beep, identifying the figure who’d entered.

“Hey,” a hoarse voice greeted, panting breathlessly.

“Hey.” Bucky called back, feeling strangely relieved to see her. _Name_ padded over to the water fountain to cool her parched throat. “Where’d you come from?”

“Ran from my apartment. Just under 10 miles.”   
“Nice. Skipped mine this morning. Couldn’t find Steve.”

She continued taking sips of water, “Go right now.”

“Nah. I’m feeling a little more.. pizazz.. than that.” He raised a single brow, nodding to the clock on the wall, reading 12:25. “You have a late night?”

Wiping the sweat from her neck, he could make out a fraction of a smirk before she turned to the wraps he’d just set down, “Mm, and an early morning. Want to get your punches in?” One hand circled the other as she swathed herself identical to him.

He snorted, eyeing her up and down. “Kid, with how I feel right now, I’d snap you in half.”

A tongue dashed out to wet her bottom lip before _Name_ broke out into a smug grin. She shook her arms and legs, bouncing back and forth. The loose material of her tank top slid freely around her shoulders, swaying with each movement.

“C’mon, James. Let’s rumble.”

Bucky scoffed, she was trying to rile him up; she always called him James when she wanted to be annoying. He watched her circle him, punching the air in front of her playfully. Bucky neatly pulled out of range from her fists each time. She might have been a little tired from her run and much smaller than him, but he knew that she could hold her own (and more) in a fight. Bucky was careful not to underestimate her swings. Her primary powers may be persuasion, but he knew that her strength also tied into the mutant gene. A normal human woman with a lifetime of mind-numbing, bone-breaking training became Natasha. _Name_ was abnormal.

Bucky recalled one particular mission where her violence even startled him. His fighting style was brutish and refined only through years of muscle memory and his own mass. She carried that same weight with the help of momentum, and it was her talent to find the way every single time to create that necessary push. If Bucky and _Name_ punched while standing still, of course, Bucky brought more force. But give her the chance with a run, a twist, a jump, even a slight turn of her body, _Name_ could conjur the boost to match. It helped that she was fast has hell and more slippery than a damn eel.

“Cut it out, kid, you’re gonna piss me off,” he warned as her knuckles whipped through his bangs. _That was close._ Bucky backed away towards the mats and padded around the softness. He thoroughly enjoyed a bit of grappling, but Steve would give him hell if he really did break a gal’s back. Of course, it meant he’d have to catch her first.

Her feet pointed towards him, matching step for step.   
“Where’d you go after the mission?” He put his arm up to block a jab.

“I’ll tell you if you beat me,”  
“Punk.”

Bucky squared his hips and kicked his shoes off in the corner of the room. _Name_ did the same. As the pair clattered on the floor, he charged, right flesh hand rising. _Name_ rushed forward and caught the blow with her forearms and landed a knee to his sternum. _There’s that speed_. He wasted to time with thinking, replying with a metal arm shooting out to grab her ankle as it landed, sending her body into a twist. Immediately, he regretted the attempt as her other leg swung wide and her heel struck directly between his shoulder blades, sending him one knee onto the floor.

Oh, he was going to get her back for that.

Forward again, fists up, Bucky’s right punch was blocked by a forearm and retaliated with a kick. He blocked it, lunging, returning the same kick. Then another, then another, until two became four, became six. Each time, smacked away until he was suddenly in her face, landing a precise elbow to her chest. _Name_ coughed lightly before taking a long step back, finding her balance, toes sprawled out in search for the right footing. She took two fast steps before jumping and twisting her body in the air, momentum swirling as both feet landed against raised wrists with a hard _thwack_.

Bucky grunted at the pressure, pushing back and watching her land with both knees bent. She looked at him from behind slack bangs, her hair falling out of its ponytail. His heart was racing, breath coming out in shallow gasps. A bead of sweat ran down his brow, falling to catch itself in his shirt.

He positioned himself to charge, but she was already to his side, dodging and maneuvering onto his back, one arm hooking around his neck. He fell backwards on top of her as both arms came to grip his head and ankles locking together to straighten his abdomen. Her breathing was loud in his ear as she strained to hold him still. Bucky planted both feet flat on the ground, arching upwards to no avail, as his metal hand tried desperately to find a place to pry free. She leaned her head back and punched him in the side when he came too close.

“Jesus!” He grunted.

“Say I win!” She huffed in his ear. It would have tickled, maybe, if he wasn’t gasping for breath. Her legs squeezed tighter as Bucky thrashed on the mat, pressing the weight of his body onto her, hoping the pressure would make her release. Spots were lining his vision.

 “I’m gonna… kill you! If you don’t… let go!”

 “Say it!” Another punch on the opposite side when the metal arm gripped too hard. The heel of his hand crashed against her nose in reflex. When it came back to him, Bucky blinked the haziness out of his eyes to see a splatter of red.

“Jesus, stop!”  
“No!” the cry had slightly softened as _Name_ sniffed loudly, rubbing her stinging nose on his shoulder to leave a red trail. She gasped quietly upon seeing the blood.  
“Don’t be stubborn, Christ, you’re bleeding!”

Her hold relaxed as he clambered up on his feet, trying to maintain balance with her weight on his back, holding on to her thighs to support her. He slowly walked to the far side of the wall, lined with mirrors and peered at her as she readjusted her arms and scooted up his back to regard herself. A sticky line of blood dripped from her nostril, now distributed in a haphazard smear on his neck and shoulder. They were both slick with sweat. The gym doors squealed out a hiss as they opened. Bucky raised a hand to pat her shoulder, asking for release.

_Name_ hopped down and looked in the mirror.

Steve stood frozen in the doorway, shocked at the proximity of his teammates.

“Finally, pal, what took you?” Bucky asked, wiping the blood off onto his wraps. As if they were the magic words to a petrification spell, Steve dropped his gaze and continued towards his destination, “Nothing, just felt funny this morning. Must have been something I ate.”

“Hey, Steve,” _Name_ called, unwrapping her hands slowly.  
“Hey,” Bucky noticed that Steve didn’t look up, only clenching his jaw and staring ahead. It was unusual that he didn’t ask about the blood, too.

He decided to shrug it off for the moment. “Alright kid, I beat you. Where’d you go after the mission?”  
The girl discarded her wraps in the bin and tightened her hair in the ponytail, “I went to the apartment, it was late.”

“No gallivanting?”  
“None, sir!” She saluted him, laughing. “Have fun, boys. I’m going for a swim.”

She trotted out of the room. Bucky turned to Steve, who was uncharacteristically silent. “Any gallivanting on your end last night?” he joked, hoping to get a rise from his friend. Steve looked like he was mulling it over, retracing his steps, or deciding on whether or not to divulge. Bucky was patient as he straightened himself in front of a large punching bag and proceeded to send quick jabs into it. Steve followed his lead and found a bag across from him. The first few blows were light, but Bucky couldn’t help but look again when the third, fourth, and fifth hits rang heavy.

“What’s going on with you?”

Steve’s hands dropped to his sides. “I stayed the night at _Name’s_.” he admitted. He put one hand on his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut, as if admitting the fact suddenly sent him straight into a migraine.

When his eyes opened, he was met with an impish smirk from Bucky. “Not like that!” Steve quickly interjected before his dark-haired friend could get any other ideas, “Nothing happened, but… it was confusing. We talked a lot, which was nice. We just fell asleep next to each other.”

Bucky felt a tinge of jealousy rise. He couldn’t remember the last time he fell asleep next to someone- he literally could not. Sure, he’d done it before, but all of his memories from before the wipes were scattered like a series of broken plates, and him desperately trying to put it back together only resulted in a sickening amalgam of one, giant, plate that wasn’t even round anymore. Sometimes when he looked at the darkness of his room, he at least wanted to think of the memory of it. He could only ever feel the longing.

“She left early, and I saw her later with someone else… and it was _like that_.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, “The hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know!” Steve cried, both hands reaching out in front of him in exasperation. “I can’t really ask!”

“She didn’t mention it at all this morning. And I told her I was looking for you.”

“I don’t even know what to think, Buck.” A deep sigh followed his statement before Steve started up landing half-hearted punches. “You’re closer to her than I am, can you make any sense of it?”

Bucky snorted, “Closer. Yeah. I’m as close to her as I am to Jupiter, pal.”

 _We annoy each other_ , Bucky thought. Outside of that, there was little interaction that was in the form of anything meaningful. They sparred together, trained together, ran most missions together, not much else. From a distance, it could be misinterpreted as friendship since _Name_ was rarely shy physically. He lost count of all the times she’d barrel into him during a mock fight, grab his hair on her way out the door, or climb on his back to reach something. However, Bucky could count the conversations lasting more than 5 minutes they’ve had on one hand. It was honestly what he appreciated about her: she didn’t ask any questions, and he didn’t give any answers. Simple.

Once again, Steve was reminded of how little he knew about _Name_. Silence followed Bucky’s statement before thuds began to fill the gym as fists met heavy bags. In-between short gasps of air, Bucky heard Steve mumble across from him.

“What the hell _does_ that mean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagined the reader's personality as a bit of a mystery to others, for various reasons which may be resolved later on. To me, the reader enjoys other people's company because they fulfill separate parts of her life, and she doesn't allow them to overlap. Her relationship with Bucky at the moment is more playful, albeit guarded, since they've spent more time together. Hope that helps!


	5. Catch...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang goes to a club, where you cast a very special charm.

The next few days were very boring for you. The plans you thought you had fell through both times and so you spent the mornings making very lavish pancake and French toast breakfasts that were scarfed down by Tony on his way to the lab. He did return to grab a plate for Bruce, and Pepper, though, which lightened your mood substantially. You watched a movie on the couch with Sam after your run and took a long nap on the lawn under an umbrella with Wanda the next day. There were no signs of the Super Soldier Duo, much to your aggravation. The rest of yesterday flew by with no indication that Steve was ready to stop ignoring you for whatever reason, and Bucky started being a little standoffish as well, rejecting your invitation to work out together.

On Thursday morning, you swam laps with Natasha before retreating to your room. Next door, the boys sparred noisily, but you made no move to greet them. She noticed you were a bit despondent, but you weren’t ready to talk.

As they finished up their session, Bucky and Steve were accosted at the door by Natasha.

“You two want to go out tonight?”

It wasn’t so much of a question as a demand, and when Bucky opened his mouth to refuse, Steve put up a hand; he knew better than that. The only thing he didn’t know is whether or not she was planning anything else.

-

Natasha found her way to your room after you had showered. You were looking inside your closet, rearranging clothing and texting with one hand.

“Plans tonight?” She asked, picking up the discarded towel on your bed. You shook your head, “Not unless you’re asking me on a date…” She plopped herself down. “I’m bored. Bruce and Tony are continuing their love affair over the weapons, why can’t we go out?”

“So you _are_ asking me on a date.” The towel whipped you right between the thighs. “Fuck! Okay, I get it. No date. Strictly platonic!”

“You’re out and about a lot. What’s fun to do in the city on a … Thursday night?”

You pondered her question, “Lots. Museums, live music in the park, live music in _museums_ , bar-hopping, clubbing- are we too old to be clubbing?” She rolled her eyes at the accusation, “Free drinks and a bitchin’ soundtrack? If Tony can do it, so can we.”

“Want to go to the opera?”

“God, no. I really don’t want to get recognized at an opera. Could you imagine?”

You smirked, putting your phone in your back pocket, feeling slightly giddy to be getting out with a friend. “I’ve got a place, a Sam Wilson special, nice middle ground between lounge and club. Don’t worry, we won’t get recognized. Meet you in the garage at 9.”

She ducked out of your room, leaving you to resume your day. You were so thankful Natasha could experience the cabin-fever that you did when it came to living in this concrete nightmare. The freedom of the studio apartment was an absolute luxury you had been taking advantage of for a couple of weeks, and you loved it so much you had half the mind to ask Tony to keep it.

Privacy was exactly what adult humans needed, not a giant facility with 6-8 roommates and the occasional out of town/galaxy guest. Vision had, on multiple times, phased through your walls at night on his way wherever the hell he goes, Stephen Strange popped into the bathroom during a soak to look for Tony, and once, Mjolnir smashed through your door (and adjacent wall!) in search of Thor’s hand. Suffice to say, cabin-fever was the kindest way to describe how you felt about the compound, and when there was an opportunity to leave and forget, you pounced on it.

 

Excitement fluttered in your throat when you made your way to the garage at 9 on the dot wearing a very fitted black mini dress and matching heels. The fluttering immediately perished at the sight of two extra unexpected passengers. You stopped dead in your tracks, giddy expression souring.

“Hey,” Natasha smiled, leaning against the driver’s door, “Hope you don’t mind the extra company. More the merrier, right?”

Steve and Bucky stood next to each other, both wearing pressed and fitted dark jeans and relaxed button up shirts. Steve picked a navy shirt. Bucky chose black. They exchanged guilty glances and exasperated sighs when you crossed your arms impatiently, demanding an answer.

“I invited them,” Natasha came around the back of the car in an emerald body-con with a lacy back, “Thought maybe the four of us could get some good R&R tonight?” She dangled a set of keys in front of you, “I’ll drive.”

 _R &R my ass,_ you thought. You’d been played. As you climbed into the backseat of Tony’s Audi with Steve close behind, the conversation with Natasha flashed through your head, the realization dawning on your that she’d lead you to recommend the lounge on purpose. An intimate setting with low light and a bit of music was the perfect place to set you up. Sitting behind her, you leaned forward as she reversed the car out of the garage. You snaked both arms to cross over on her collar bones, putting your mouth on the side of her headrest away from earshot of the boys.

“Nat, if you want to play, I’ll play.”

Then you sat back and enjoyed the rest of the ride in silence.

 

 

Once inside, the four of you sat down at a booth, all too on edge to enjoy or comment about the music. This was one of your favorite lounges to frequent after Sam had introduced you to it. Thursday nights were generally a little bit more relaxed all around, but there was definitely still a crowd of that young, new-money blood, out and about for an early start to the end of the week. It was a moderately upscale place, with excellent drinks and service, but not too ritzy to where you’d be rubbing shoulders with Tony’s crowd. You were glaring from Bucky to Steve and back again as they tried to look at anything else.

Natasha patted you on the back. “Well, as much as I love _this_ , I’m going to get us some drinks. Super boys, any requests? Not that it matters since neither of you can get drunk.” The last sentence was a soft punctuation, as if she’d had already resigned herself to mild company for the night.

“Just scotch, neat” Steve answered. Bucky requested bourbon.  
“_Name_?”  
“Dirty martini, please.” You didn’t look up as she sauntered away, signature red hair drawing discreet eyes from the crowd around you. It was usually around this time that the first few brave parties would come by and ask if you were **the** _Name_. Overall it was rare, since you were a less recognizable Avengers face, but since now you were also flanked by **the** Captain America and Winter Soldier. It would be an unavoidable incident of the night.

“Oh my gosh- I’m so sorry to interrupt, could I please get a picture with you guys? My friends didn’t think it was you but I’d know Captain America’s face anywhere!” A young girl stumbled to your both, leaning on the top of it, unlocking her phone frantically. _And there it was_.

Bucky fidgeted, tugging on the collar of his shirt. Steve looked ready to agree before you turned to her and gave her the most apologetic look you could muster, “Aw, sorry, we’re not who you think we are.”  
“But-“  
“Please tell your friends they were right. Also I think you left your phone in the restroom.”

She immediately stood up straight and placed her phone into her purse. An increasingly panicked expression was emergent on her face. “Oh my gosh! I left my phone in the restroom!”

The men across from you both breathed a sigh of relief as the girl hurried off. Your expression turned blank again as you faced them.

“Stop looking at me like that, kid,” Bucky scolded, “We didn’t know you’d be here. She got us, too.”

You put a finger up, “Shut up. Do not talk to me until I’ve eaten all the olives in my drink.”

“Good to know _you’ll_ feel better about it.” Steve sassed.

You squinted your eyes at him, feeling your blood boil. How dare he snark off at you when he’d been giving you the cold shoulder for the last three days, purposefully ignoring you in every room of the compound. Every time your shadow even dared cast itself in the same vicinity as Steve, he’d leave. It really irked since you thought you’d grown closer since the mission, but he acted just the way you thought he might- judgmental and prickly. You opened your mouth to reply when Natasha sat your drink down. A runner came by with the rest and both men took large gulps.

Instead of saying what you _really_ wanted to say to Steve (various rounds of multiple expletives), you drank the martini in two breaths, chewed the olives loudly, and sat the empty container back on the surface.

Natasha made a noise of discontent. “Damn it, _Name_, it took me forever to get in front of the line, you couldn’t wait like 10 minutes?”

You waved the waiter back and ordered a round of shots, saving Nat the walk back to the bar, not that she actually cared, she looked hot tonight and knew it. Likely, she got all these drinks for free. Bucky tilted his head in question of your actions.

“You know what will make me feel better? Seeing you two get shitfaced. As punishment.”

“We can’t g-“

You laughed darkly as the shots of rum arrived. Pinching your glass delicately between your fingers, you slid the other three their own cups. Natasha made a low hum of appreciation as the dark liquid swirled about. Damn it all. In a moment of impulsiveness stimulated by wrath, you casted:

“You _will_ get drunk tonight. I _command_ it.”

Your shot clattered on the table, drained. Natasha did the same and shouted a small whoop of encouragement. Quickly, you grabbed her free hand and pulled yourself up, dragging her to the dance floor across the room, leaving Bucky and Steve in shock.

Steve felt peculiar, and as he caught Bucky’s eye he knew his friend could feel it too. A tingle of electricity traveled up his spine, racing to meet the tips of his fingers. Waves of voltage buzzed at his skin, and when one crested, another one followed. He hadn’t experienced this since before the serum, when he’d spend evenings slapping on bandages over his face cradling a bottle, or off on one of those dead-end dates with Bucky sipping on something to dull the awful reminder that yet another woman couldn’t be bothered to look at him twice. The scotch was coming alive inside of him, twisting in his stomach and sending out a siren to every single extremity. Bucky whistled a low note, running his hand through long, dark tresses. They both glanced down at the brimming shot glasses, so full that they could overflow at any second.

“What do you think, Stevie?”

“Buck, I haven’t been drunk since…”

“Me neither.”

From across the room, you stepped with Natasha to the music, watching with satisfaction when all four drinks hit the table. Empty. Scotch, bourbon, rum, all gone.

 

They were making their way over.


	6. .... And Release

Steve didn’t want to ask because he didn’t want to know. He only wanted to enjoy the courage he’d been temporarily gifted as he swayed to the rhythm on the dance floor. It was easy to feel invisible in the mass of moving bodies, all alight with alcohol and energy. The tension from the last few days seemed to evaporate along with his inhibitions as he danced close to Natasha. You stood in front, hips matching Bucky’s every swing, throwing your head back and tousling your thick hair.

“Jesus, I feel good,” Bucky murmured, “You couldn’t have done this any earlier? All those parties?”

“When was the last time we were at a party together?” You asked, sending him an incredulous look.

“No, no,” Natasha called, “The problem is by the time you leave your room, she’s already five drinks deep and wouldn’t even recognize you!”

Steve laughed boisterously, it was true, Bucky was tentative to join with such large crowds that Tony attracted. Usually he would come in when more than half had already left, and stalk around as an effort to re-integrate. It had been rough on Bucky the first year, but more and more, he’d shown effort and growth. The fact that he willingly came out without a fight tonight was leaps and bounds better than anything Steve could have expected from his old pal even 6 months ago. You, on the other hand, dove head first into Tony’s parties, welcoming the crowd, eating up the attention. Tony always made sure to schedule things on nights he knew you were free. Outside of his own allure, it was always good to have a few other charismatic hosts run interference for the rest of the Avengers.

“Let’s get another round,” Bucky suggested with a wide smile. He went off with Natasha knowingly and left Steve and you alone, shuffling to find a better spot to arrange your bodies. “Hey Buck, slow down!” Steve called after them, watching Bucky’s arm wave back in acknowledgement. The two of them departed from the shadowy crowd of the dance floor, heading to the bar.

He stepped closer to you, feeling heat rising from his chest. He felt guilty for being so avoidant, but it was difficult to breach a subject he knew nothing about. He wasn’t even sure what the subject was. Did he like you? Could you like him? Before even getting into who the other guy at the market was, he’d have to start with at least those two questions.

Firstly, he was unsure if “like” was the right word for it. He’d questioned himself starting with the night at your place. Whatever he was feeling might have been closer to appreciation and intrigue than anything valid. He didn’t want to mess anything up. But the feeling of seeing you now, hair loose and wild, lips painted red, lashes fluttering, chest rising up and down, panting, made his stomach start an acrobatic routine. Steve felt vaguely sick, burning hot from the inside out.

Your hand slowly travelled up to rest on his taut shoulder, wrist dangling off and fingers brushing his collar. One hand moved to his hip, slowing both of you down to the beat of the new song.

“Are you done being weird?” You asked quietly, looking into Steve’s blue-green eyes. The room was dark, but you could vaguely see the redness in both corners crawling, a tell-tale sign of alcohol’s effects on him. You hoped the liquor had loosen some of his restraint and he’d be able to finally talk to you. There was a pang in your chest about having to charm him into it- it was a manipulation that did leave you feeling guilty.

He blinked demurely, looking down at his shoes. You stepped closer, swaying left and right. Steve’s hands came to rest on both of your hips as he followed your lead.

“I didn’t mean to be,” He gazed back at you, brows drawn, creating a fine crease on his forehead. You could tell he was genuinely apologetic. “I just… don’t know how to say it,”

You continued to advance until you were all but flush against him, leaning up so that you were cheek to cheek. He really was much taller than you, even with heels, it took effort to reach his ear. You could hear the hitch in his breath as your hand gripped tight to his back. His hands travelled over you, coming to meet each other in the middle of your lower back.

“Steve, it’s not a big deal. You stayed over and nothing happened. Even if something did, it doesn’t have to be like this.” You were lightly shaking your head as you pulled away, hoping he could see how desperate you were for him to accept.

“I’m sorry that I made you uncomfortable. I really am. I was just rambling all night.”

His Adam’s Apple bobbed up and down as he watched you pull back, a tongue coming out to run across his suddenly dry bottom lip. “Even if something did?” he asked hoarsely. “You said, ‘even if something did’?” He echoed when it became obvious that you weren’t following. “Nothing happened… but… did you want something to?”

The shock on your face nearly sobered him. As soon as it slipped past his lips, he cursed himself. You took a step back to steady yourself on this new information. This whole time you had thought your drunk melancholy confessions had put him off your presence, but it had been entirely something else. A knowing smile began to bloom on your face.

“Steve…”  
“No!” Steve cried, clasping his hand to his face, “Please, not- I didn’t- I didn’t mean,”   
His panic did nothing to dissuade your Cheshire grin from growing. You licked your lips teasingly as he flushed a dark red to match your lipstick. “Steve Rogers!” You berated, raising your voice just enough to embarrass him without drawing too much attention.

He moaned in agony.

“Steve Rogers,” you dropped down to a whisper, smoothing yourself against him. Hearing his name play from your mouth was pushing him further to the brink of something big and dark, and he was afraid it’d swallow him hole. “This entire time,” you were whispering it now, the breath of your voice tickling his ear and sending shivers down his spine. “I thought you were avoiding me because you were disgusted with me.”

You fitted a smooth leg in-between his, pushing against his inner thigh. Steve visibly shook like a leaf in the wind. As large of a man as he was, if you hadn’t been holding him up, he would have dropped like a bag of rocks. He felt himself go nearly slack as he leaned down, eager for the rest of your speech.

You lightly rubbed your nose against the shell of his ear, turning your head to catch his neck on your lips. Steve’s groan came out in an uneven stutter. “Steve Rogers, do you want to f—"

 

Suddenly, a hand gripped your shoulder as something tickled the bare skin there.

Bucky leaned in close, chin resting on your back. His coarse stubble was rubbing against your shoulder blade on purpose. “Hey kiddies, take a time out. We got drinks at th’ table.”

He smelled distinctly like fresh alcohol, and you turned, watching him observe you and Steve wickedly, crossing both arms across his chest, “You guys are really turning it up, aren’t you.”

Steve took a deeply nervous breath, thankful your sentence had been interrupted. He rubbed both hands on the back of his neck and followed your lead as you stepped behind Bucky. His body was buzzing, ghostly remnants of the way your leg felt thrusting between him made his abdomen clench in the most aching way. His imagination wandered, playing over scenarios of what might have unfolded if Bucky hadn’t timed his entrance so well.

“You’re making me jealous, Stevie,” said man joked, turning slightly to show the two of you a playful smile. You rolled your eyes and swatted his back before excusing yourself to the restroom.

Steve watched you go, swallowing thickly as your fit frame squeezed through the crowd. The curved line of your back side was feeding the fire inside him; he wanted much more than his hands on your back. His heart was pounding in his ears, trying to slow down desperately knowing the bravery he felt was insincere, as much as it tried to convince him otherwise. The alcohol was in control.

 

Natasha was waiting at the table with a plump smirk across her lips. Her hand was wrapped around a martini glass as she raised a red brow at Steve. “Getting cozy yet?” He plopped down next to her and grabbed the drink in front of him, ignoring the smart comment.

“What’s it like being drunk for the first time in 75 years?” Natasha asked.

Bucky smiled, “Like… a new superpower.” His eyes slid shut. They’d taken another shot at the bar together when they got there. Natasha could hold her liquor, but Bucky’s body was reeling from the experience. With two shots and a glass of bourbon, he felt elevated, untouchable. This would be a request he’d ask of _Name_ many times in the future, that was for sure.

“Glad you came out?” Natasha asked Steve who sat quietly mulling. He nodded. “Feeling.. brave, Captain?” She laughed. Her and Bucky had watched the two of them on the dancefloor from the bar. They took a shot because they had bet that there’d be some canoodling. There was. As far as Natasha was concerned, everybody won tonight. She’d grown so tired of the silent conflict in the compound and was glad it would be thoroughly resolved by a good time out. Whatever happened next was now in Steve’s hands.

“It’s about time you got with someone, Rogers,” Natasha went on, leaning forward and putting her chin in her palm. She’d been trying to hook him up with so many women over the course of their friendship. He always turned her down. When they kissed a few years back, it pained her to think that the extremely insignificant gesture was the first kiss Steve had in who knows how long. And since.

Steve dismissed her, “It’s not like that, we’re not a …thing. Just friends.” He realized it sounded stupid, but no other words came to mind. Friends was closest to the truth.

“Stevie, you grind up on all your friends like that?” Bucky hassled, “As your oldest friend, that’s news to me.”

 

Steve groaned in frustration for many reasons- Bucky sassing him was the least of his concerns. There was a very uncomfortable tightness in his jeans at this very moment and the walk from the dancefloor to the table was already a torturous journey. He rested his head on the cushion of the booth and curiously looked over across the room, hoping you’d be making your way back. His heart pounded wildly as he made out your distinct step, heels clicking. You were wearing a lazy smile, reminiscent of the night he’d stayed over. It was rare to see you like that, usually your happy expressions were more obtuse- smirking, sneering, coy bottom-lip bites, or wide-grins. This one was the one he really liked.

You were close enough to touch. He was ready to stand to let you slide into the booth between him and Bucky, but an unexpected voice called your attention away.

“Jane?”

Steve had heard that name before.

Natasha and Bucky were conversing, paying no attention to the unfolding events. Steve watched as you turned apprehensively, confused by the moniker.

“Hey! I thought that was you.” A young man was eagerly walking up, hand reaching forward and clasping itself on your elbow. The surprise on your face was evident as he pulled you close. Natasha and Bucky stilled, watching the display.

“Hey, Oliver! What a coincidence!”

Oliver looked you over in appreciation, smiling at your dress. He tucked a loose lock of wavy hair behind his ear, “Are you here with friends?”

You nodded and smiled wide, gesturing to the booth, “Yeah, just a night out. You?” Oliver nodded to them, and the table returned the gesture. He said nothing about who they were, as if it didn’t even cross his mind.

“I came with some buddies,” he pointed to his own group of two young men looking over curiously. When they caught your eye, they grinned widely and gave their friend two thumbs up. He sighed apologetically in response, “Sorry about them, they’re… yeah.” He dropped his voice low, placing his hand in yours, “Can I call you later? Yeah? I really hope we can see each other again.” He placed a kiss to your cheek.

You nodded and sent him off. He politely waved to the table before disappearing back to his group of friends. After watching him go, you breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the booth, one hand rubbing the anxious area above your stomach. “Jesus Christ that was… I’m so glad he didn’t say anything about you guys.”

When no one made a sound, you cautiously slipped into the booth next to Natasha, questioning the silence with a slow sweep of your eyes. Bucky and Natasha had raised brows, Nat was gently biting her lips closed as if she could let something fearful loose. Bucky slowly put his forehead in his metal hand.

Steve had the worst expression of all, sitting across from you. You couldn’t even describe it- his mouth turned into half of a smile, half of a frown, and he fluctuated between opening it to speak, and then closing it. He was blinking slowly, as if trying to process the information. You tilted your head at him. Why was everyone being so damn weird?

“Friend of yours?” Bucky asked finally.

“Yes… obviously?”

“Special friend?” You groaned at Natasha’s quip, but Bucky nodded approvingly at her choice of words. You didn’t like feeling like you were being interrogated at dinner; you weren’t a child.

“What is this? Like a Puritanical household? Yes, a “special” friend. Jesus.” Irritation was building in the back of your throat. “You guys my parents or something?”

“How many special friends do you have?”

Steve’s commanding question took you by surprise and you turned to him, appalled. He was glaring at you accusingly.

“Steve…” All three of your voices warned him in unison, one concerned, one wary, and one very, very upset. “Okay bud, let’s go for a walk,” Bucky put his hand on Steve’s shoulder, ready to usher him out of the booth. He stole quick glances from you to Natasha, pleading for the Russian spy to help him. She understood, but you were already burning.

“That’s not even the same guy from Tuesday.” He planted himself deeper in the seat, taking a large swig of his drink. His eyes were bloodshot and dry.

You squinted at him. What the fuck was he talking about? Tuesday? You rummaged through your mind for any semblance of a clue. Finally, it hit you. He’d seen you with Dane at the market. It was a halfway point between your place and the compound, he must have been there. You shook your head in disbelief. “So fucking what?”

“Do these guys know you’re playing them?” _And me?_ His eyes seem to ask. You might have felt sympathy for that pathetic look on his face if you weren’t already 7 layers deep in hellfire. Natasha and Bucky shuffled around, trying to make it obvious that they wanted to leave the two of you in discuss this privately, but you put a hand up to stop them.

You placed both hands on the table as you leaned over to him, “I need you to listen, Steve Rogers, actually, all of you—” a pointed look to Bucky and Natasha, “What I do in my personal time is none of your goddamn business. I’m not playing anybody.” With each word, you became more and more indignant.

How _dare_ he? You weren’t his girlfriend, lover, or _anything_. One flirtation at a club was not equivalent to engagement, and in no way were you going to drop your entire life to be at the beck and call of Steve Rogers. He was acting like a spoiled little boy, and there was no room in your life to be somebody’s stay-at-home wife or mother.

“If you’re so fucking worried about Oliver’s feelings, you can march right over there and ask him. Let me assure you that he’ll tell you he’s very happy about our arrangement. Yes, we fuck. And yes, I fucked that other guy too. What time period do you think we’re in?”

Steve lowered his eyes, hurt, ashamed, disappointed. He was hurt that he let himself be so receptive to attention, so eager to obtain physical affection that he had rushed in too quickly. He knew it was a mistake. “Why does he call you Jane?”

You threw both hands up exasperated, “Because it’s not _real_! You think I’m going to tell a stranger my name and let them figure out what I fucking do? You think I like doing that?”

“You … _charm them_?”

Everyone’s eyes were on you, as your breath caught in your throat. _Steve was really pulling out all the stops tonight_ , you thought, _he must really want a fight_. The allegation churned maddeningly inside of your chest, swelling to reach itself up your throat. This couldn’t be true. It must have been an alcohol poisoning incident and in the morning you’ll wake up in the med bay hooked on an IV and the events of tonight will have been an enormous hallucinatory dream your mind concocted.

It was impossible to think that the single time in your dumb life you chanced to be honest with someone, about the sadness and fear inside of you, that very someone, would twist it into such a bastardized retelling of the truth. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You always had this bad reflex of tearing up during a heated confrontation, when all the rage and anger had nowhere else to go. The fire would spill out of your eyes in streams.

“Fuck you.” The venom seethed from in-between your gnashed teeth. “You think I have to use mind-control for people to sleep with me?” A sharp laugh followed.

You stood upright, exiting the booth, focused only on the blonde super-soldier in front of you. Straightening your back, you gestured up and down to your own body bitterly, “Baby, this shit sells itself. You would know. Didn’t take a lot to get you going, did it?”

Wiping roughly at the corners of your eyes, you promptly turned and marched from the booth. The familiarity of Oliver’s back was at the bar, flanked by his friends.

 

From the booth, your former companions watched you exit the lounge with Oliver, not bothering to glance back. Bucky groaned into his hands as he slumped forward on the table.

“I hate drinking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thaaaaannkkk you for reading! Here's a chapter that adds a little more drama into the mix. When will Steve learn? Who knows! He's such a stubborn boy.


	7. Midnight Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter that introduces some background between the reader and Natasha, and the beginnings of a mission gone wrong.

The next morning, you rolled over to nurse a growing hangover with a glass of water and seven painkillers. Of course, the bottle recommended two- but being a mutant and all, you were more inclined to bump up the dosage. You were reminded of the company when your arm hit the wall of Oliver’s back as he lay still asleep on his stomach. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you watched him breathe, the muscles of his back rising and falling with every inhale and exhale. You rolled your neck, groaning at last night’s events.

Steve was such a dick. His Golden Boy demeanor was quite a façade, wasn’t it?

You threw the pills down and washed their dry grip with water. Oliver rolled over sleepily in bed, hand over his face to block out the daylight from the window. You watched him, eyeing his dark curls and long lashes, full pink lips, tall nose with a slight bump. He was truly, very handsome. His flawless sun kissed skin alone could have made any woman swoon.

You nudged him with your foot lightly, “Oliver?” You called, “Hey, I gotta get going this morning.”

Oliver groaned, hands clambering around the bed for you until he found your waist, eyes remaining faithfully shut. “Stay, babe?”

“Oliver..” a firmer tone needed to be used, apparently, “We’ve already talked about this.”

He ruefully rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and slowly stretched across your bed, back popping after so many hours of stillness. Finally, after much stalling, Oliver smiled at you with a dazzling grin, illuminated by the rays pouring into your small room. A minor twist of his body was enough to expose the rising slope of your sheets near his groin.

“One for the road? Morning sex is with you is my _favorite_ thing,”

You gave him a lopsided smile before planting a trail of sloppy kisses down his torso. He was such a cheeky bastard, you mused, a man after your own heart. The next fifteen minutes were spent in a lazy rhythm of soft pants and smacks, punctuated by a loud groan and shudder.

 

Oliver shuffled out around 8, and you changed into a pair of jogging shorts and tank top in preparation for your run to the compound. Forgoing the shower since you’d be getting sweaty again anyway, you stretched at the door before starting a slow pace down the street, music blaring in your earbuds.

By the time you arrived, your sides were burning in anger, but you ambled into the gym anyway, prepared to push yourself through your regular routine before possibly working your frustrations out on a training dummy.

You should have expected him to be there, in the gym. You nodded to Steve as you walked past, shooting a curt, “Captain,” before grabbing two 40-pounders off the wall of free weights. He didn’t respond, which perplexingly quelled and fueled your anger at the same time. He was special, that was for sure.

Five sets of shoulder presses in and your full-body sweat had become a full-body waterfall. Your muscles were screaming and the relief of ending the torture hit sweetly. You recharged with large mouthfuls of water and wandered away to find a machine worthy to punish the rest of your back. Steve had been carefully eyeing you in the full-wall mirror but you pretended like he didn’t exist and continued the reps. A voice in your head told you it’d be easier to apologize, but then it’s challenged by a second voice that screamed only profanities.

You ran reels of conversations through your head, chortling at the result of every single one. _Hey Steve, sorry for brushing my knee against your dick. Friends?_ Or maybe, _Hey Steve, you know all that shit I said at my apartment? April Fools!_ Maybe you could settle on _Let’s fuck it out and move on, Captain Tightwad._

A part of you flinched as you thought about the fateful night. Stupid drunk brain let a man stay the night in your bed, no sex involved, and now everything was fucked up. Rewind. Stupid drunk brain let _Steve fuckin’ Rogers_ , Oh Captain, my Captain, all our Captains, stay the night and now everything was fucked up.

The low growl in your throat surprised even you when you realized just how pissed off you were at yourself. It was much better when he was the singular object of your fury, whether he truly deserved it or not. You didn’t want to think about that anymore.

A hiss of the sliding door notified you that Steve was leaving, and you resigned yourself to the punching bag for the last hour of your gym schedule. By the time you entered your shower, your knuckles were verging on just this side of raw and burned under the hot spray. You squeezed the water from your hair and sighed, stepping into your bedroom.

 

“This feels familiar,” an amused voice greeted you from the middle of your bed in the darkness. Flipping the light switch on, you gripped tightly to the fluffy towel around your chest. Natasha sat, back against the headboard, feet crossed over your sheets and you have half the mind to scold her for still having her shoes on. You picked out slim joggers and an ill-fitting shirt, rifling through the drawer for underwear. “Want me to close my eyes?” she asked.

You sneered at her and dropped your towel, dressing under her indifferent observation.

“You’re mad at me?” She asked coolly, inspecting a loose fiber on your pillow before flicking it over the edge of the bed. When you didn’t reply, she crossed her arms with a sigh. “Will you pull your head out of your ass and stop acting like such a child?”

“What the fuck do you want from me, Natasha?”

“Do I actually need to lecture you, or can you come to the correct conclusion yourself?”

“Do you ever give straight answers or is therapy in session, Doctor?”

The corner of her lip twitched, and you stared hard into her face, imagining what she might look like without any skin. She was terrifyingly calm against your onslaught of bad attitude and took a composed breath before burrowing herself even further deeper into your bed, suddenly all smiles.

“ _They_ might not know you, but I _do_. You’re an asshole when your feelings get hurt.” You glowered at her but nothing more. “You tear through your damn life hard and fast, and when someone tries to slow it down, you kick ‘em off. Then you wonder why you’re lonely.”

“I don’t _wonder_ that.”

“You’re right. You wallow in it. You use it to justify your chaos.” She looked the slightest bit hurt and you crossed your arms in a weak display of defiance. You wanted to choose anger. You wanted to keep swinging. “If you keep running, one day, people are going to give up the chase. Not everyone is as tolerant as I am, _Name_.”

It was over in a second, but you knew she was thinking about Amsterdam. The memory of the flickering hostel room light and moth-eaten bedsheets washed over you. The smell of cigarettes and Natasha drawing the blinds close at midnight. Your two pairs of combat boots piled on top of each other by the door.

 

She slid off the bed like a cat and headed to the door, stopping when her hand touched the handle. Natasha opened her mouth to speak but before she was able get out another word, F.R.I.D.A.Y. turned all the lights in your room into a severe orange hue.

“Sir requests all members present in the laboratory. Promptly.”

 

You and Natasha plodded in silence to the lab where the rest of the team had already converged. Plucking a chair from one of the many tables, you sat down in it, one leg propped on the armrest.

Tony flitted around the room, picking up various bits and bobs of machinery before setting them back down. He looked frantic, but you could never really tell if it was by design or ...just him. Sometimes he did his best work with 4 all-nighters and an espresso IV drip. Bruce finally descended upon him holding out both hands, a tamer controlling his beast.

“Boys and girls!” Tony announced, as he held up what looked like a water bottle. You whipped your neck in a double take and he does as well before he setting it down, “Sorry. Let’s try that again! Boys and girls!” This time, he picked up a sawed-off shot gun.

“Look at this shit. Can you believe this? So brutish. This isn’t the goddamn boonies.”

Banner snapped his fingers twice and Tony returned on track, “Check it out.” He aimed it towards a wall and fired off a spray of glowing purple shrapnel. You jumped out of your seat in response, looking around to see your teammates also on edge and glancing at each other.

“What the hell, man?!” Sam yelled, “Warn us next time or--- SHIT!”

The bits of bullets that had embedded in the concrete wall began to shift and glow again before tunneling deeper inside. They whirred and vibrated, crunching the matter around them three times- two up, one down.

“Are you doing that?” Steve asked from his spot across the table.

Tony’s shit eating grin unsettled you, “What a great question, Capitán. No! No I’m not!” He poked two fingers in the air and pulled up a floating display screen “F.R.I.D.A.Y., show diagnostics of sawed-off shotgun lovingly named Pepper Spray!”

A round of groans and eye-rolling arose from the room.

F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s calm voice was a nice change of pace from the strangeness of this entire meeting, “This weapon is imbued with alien technology, sir. Traces of matter from--” You stopped listening. Bucky found your eyes across the room and smirked; he’d done the same. You shifted your gaze from him to the door, playfully insinuating a break-out. The paperwork and bureaucratic bullshit was the most torturous parts of your job, and as much as you loved ass-kicking, you always hated the write-ups afterwards. Bucky only grinned. If anyone could understand your restlessness, it was him.

You raised your hand to interrupt a discourse between Tony and Banner as they argued on the semantics of what exactly to call the energy source. “Are we doing something about this? Is there a mission?”

“Quick and dirty, huh?” Sam chucked.

“I would like to know as well,” Vision spoke next to Wanda, “This kind of technology is quite dangerous in the hands of civilians.”

“Let the adults talk, children,” Tony snapped before eyeing Vision’s melancholy red features, “Children and… hm… overcharged Roomba. Actually, you’re an adult.”

Natasha rolled her eyes pointedly at Banner who returns to snapping in Tony’s face again.

“Who’s turn is it?”

“Hey, fuck the turns.” You called, “Can I go? Where’s the plug operating out of?”

Tony crossed his arms and peered at you through his dark lashes, annoyed that you’ve interrupted him as well as suspicious that you’re so eager for another mission. You’re enthusiastic for a lot of things- a party, a brawl, but missions were generally dependent on their “snore-level”-- as you so annoyingly called them. Infiltrating missions were more your speed. You and Natasha worked best with those, especially if it also involved a bit of seduction and razzle-dazzle. Cap, Bucky, and Thor were the Bruisers. Sam, Wanda, Vision, and himself were all long-ranged and open spaces. Banner was his back up cannon saved for a rainy day.

“I bet you wished you were paying attention now, huh little Miss Eager Pants? I already explained all of that. And no- you can’t come out to play, you’re grounded for the sass. Moreover, you killed four people on the last one.”

You blinked. They were bad muscle; you couldn’t stick around and check for a pulse, they had guns and the guns went off. You haughtily leaned back, fully prepared to shoot off a blistering stream of insults, but as the chair creaked, you suddenly decided against it. Instead, you cracked a smile at Tony. A lovely, winning, ten-out-of-ten, Miss Universe Pageant smile.

If Tony wanted to pretend that Nat shoots marshmallows and hugs from her pistol, that’s fine. Captain America’s vibranium dinnerplate smashed more vertebraes than you could count, but that’s fine too. You’ve personally watched Bucky tear someone’s arm off and use it as a tetherball rope for the rest of their body.

So, you smiled through the anger and made a mental note that you’d be spraying beer all over his Armani suit at the next party.

“I don’t think I like that.” Tony muttered, suspicious at your sudden manner, “What are you plotting against me?”

When you said nothing, he moved on but kept his watchful eye on you as he spoke.

“Romanoff, Wilson, you’re with me. We’re going to Tel Aviv for this one. I got good intel on a party and a very high-profile dealer who might come to some terms of agreement with us.”

You shook your head because this was the type of mission that would have been _perfect_ for you— hello, Tony! Party? Persuasion? You slumped further down in the chair and crossed your arms once more, feeling your annoyance continue to grow.

“We’re heading out in an hour. Bring that sparkly dress I like, Romanoff.” Tony tossed the weapon back onto the table with a clatter and closed all the monitors surrounding him. “We’ll be back tomorrow. And _you.._ ”

Your eyebrow rose.

“You never looked over that write-up from Cap. It’s half a week late. I need it submitted before I get back.”

\--

Steve watched you prop your feet up on the coffee table, laptop sitting snugly on top of your thighs. Since last night, he’d been harboring this terrible negative energy that he had no outlet for. The memory of Oliver kissing your cheek and your nonchalant response to it _hurt_ him. And in return, he tried to hurt you. When you left with Oliver, Steve felt himself latch onto an anger he’d never experienced before.  

Bucky tried to talk to him about it this morning, but he wouldn’t have any of it.

He didn’t even know where to start, honestly. More than anything, he wanted to go back to the way it was before that mission at the strip club. If he knew venturing forth with you meant ending up with this god-awful _nothingness_ , he would have never walked you back home. He was supposed to be the leader, and he wasn’t sure he could lead you anywhere at this point.

He sighed quietly, leaning against the wall as he watched the back of your head.

Your finger clicked noisily against the keyboard as you scrolled through the page, blowing a piece of hair from your face. “Didn’t even capitalize this sentence…” You mumbled before correcting his error. He watched you frown the further down the write-up you got, and once you reached the end of the first page, you groaned, throwing your head back against the couch cushion.

“Fuck! Three more pages? God. How’d he type all of that when I was in the shower…” You grabbed a fistful of hair before placing the laptop on the coffee table. Steve stepped from the room, disappearing down the hallway as you continued to complain before you hushed. A new set of footsteps entered and Steve faintly heard your grateful exhale.

“ _Bucky_! Thank god you’re here. Race you to the gym. First one there gets a free punch.”

Bucky chuckled lowly before two sets of rapid footsteps sprinted from the room.   
“Your ass is grass, sweetheart.”

Steve couldn’t stop the sudden irritation inside of him, edged on by the stinging flare of jealousy.

\--

It had been nearly eight hours since Tony last contacted Steve. He calculated the time zone difference in his head, trying to make sense of the situation. The flight to Tel Aviv was supposed to last only three hours, landing when the party began, and Tony was sure that their dealings would put them no more than another three hours behind. He _did_ mention staying for a little bit just to see the sights, but Steve was looking forward to being updated when the mission had reached a conclusion.

Was it bad intel? Could they be in trouble? He spun around on his heels, pacing back and forth in Tony’s office, going over the file from the mission debriefing.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., give me updates on Tony’s status.”

“Sorry, sir. Unable to reach communication servers. It seems I’m being blocked.”

“Blocked by what? You can’t communicate with your own … er—self? In the suit?”

“No.”

“Shit. Call Bucky and _Name_, we need to fly out.”

“Promptly, sir.”

-

 

Steve put the aircraft into autopilot as the three of you got ready for the descent into Israel. Tony’s last pinged coordinates were much further north than expected—closer to the edge of Lebanon. You only hoped that Natasha and Sam were with him. The three of you stood by the back door patiently, geared up in your respective dark colors—black for Bucky, navy for Steve, indigo for you. You strapped a final blade into the back of your thigh holster and pulled it snug, leg bouncing in anticipation.

“First thing’s first,” Steve said, tightening the strap of his helmet, “We find the team.”

It was the first thing he had said all flight. Even Bucky had been quiet, choosing to read a book for the last three hours. You, on the other hand, took a nap, eager to put the awkward tension out of your mind.

“Stay together. Don’t get impatient. We’re going in blind.” Steve commanded, still not meeting your gaze. He only looked at Bucky. The door began to open, red lights filling the cabin.

“Fine!” You called, your voice getting lost in the wind from below. You buckled your parachute in, stepping forwards, foot sliding onto the lowering ramp. “At least _look at me_ when you’re talking to me!”

Steve sent you a sideways glare, meeting your challenge with an angry blue gaze. He’d spent the last three hours questioning himself about bringing you on the mission. When he called for you, it was a snap decision, and he was still unsure why.

He opened his mouth to fire back but was suddenly interrupted by a deafening blast that rocked the bird sideways across the pitch-black sky.

Your foot slipped from the ramp and you pitched out of the jet, falling into the darkness of the ground beneath. From the metal confines of the cabin, Steve screamed your name.


	8. The Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets real, y'all.

It’s raining a torrential and biblical flood when you awaken. Water rushes from the sky and up your nose, making you sputter and cough, desperate to eject the burning liquid from your lungs. There are ropes on your ankles as well as on your wrists, binding them so tightly to your sides they’ve become numb. Flashes of light beam into your eyes. A booming clap of thunder roars your name.

“Rise and shine, darlin’!”

The flood pauses.

You spew water from your mouth in a series of hacking coughs.

When the spotlights dim and you regain as much of your vision as you can— through the massive swelling on the right side of your face-- you can make out a man’s upside-down outline, fleetingly familiar, mostly unknown. There are bright purple lights glowing from the eyes.

“Wh-who the fuck--”

The man throws the bucket he was holding into a corner of the room and places his hand on your knees. Ah, that was the flood. Your legs are secured side-by-side as you swing limply by your ankles. He gives you a good push and you careen back and forth in the dingy little room, world spinning as the blood rushes to your head.

“I can’t believe we got you! I thought they’d send you to the party but when they didn’t, I figured a hostage situation might pull you out of the woodwork.”

“Let me go.” You manage to hiss, but he obliviously rambles on, cheery as all get out.

“Well, it sure did, didn’t it? We blasted that ugly little ship right out of the sky, and you right along with it!”

“Let me go!” The man pauses, suddenly, cocking his head to the side.

“Are you saying something, dear? Sorry. I've got earplugs in. I know all about your neat little trick. It’s my precaution against your powers—I wouldn’t want to slit my own throat on your suggestion, would I? Anyway, we’re going to have such good fun together, my darling.”

He reaches down, blade in hand and darts it into the front of your neckline, other hand firm on your legs to keep you in place. In jagged motions, he rips the front of your suit, carving chunks of your flesh with it before tearing the material off your shoulders.

Your world goes black again when he slams the handle of the knife against your temple.

\--

Steve and Bucky tear their way through the Israeli coastline, on each other’s heels as they approach Tony’s last coordinates. They’ve been on foot since Steve landed what remained of the jet half an hour ago in the Mediterranean, pulling each other out of the sea. There’s static buzzing in Steve’s ear before Tony’s broken voice crackles through.

“Warehouse--- ready-- back online--- Wilson---down.”

“Tony!” Steve cries as he pads through the sand, seeing the lights of the warehouse district in the distance. “Tony, _Name_’s lost. Can you track her? We got shot out of the air!”

“Cap?” His voice is somewhat clearer, “Her ---- compromised. She’s so---whe--- in-- complex, but I doubt --- keep her --- long. They know we’re out. Sending ---- to --- meet me in fifteen.”

“Fifteen?!” Bucky yells to Steve’s right, “Not all of us can fly, you know!”

“R-- Forrest, Run!” Tony hollers back.

It would take them nearly another three hours before they would find you.

\--

You’re woozy and stumbling to stand, light as a feather and heavy as a cannonball. Your purple-eyed captor had cut you down with the very blade that tore through your stealth suit and you have no idea how much time has passed since you’ve been here. Glancing at your body as you lean dizzily against the molded wall of the room, you see four puncture marks on your chest leering back at you—inflamed yellow eyelids encasing red, seeping pupils.

“What the fuck...” You mumble, catching your misstep against the corner.

“You like those? Real Grade-A tranquilizers for your mutant gene. Special formula, just for you, honey.” He takes the earplugs out and rubs a knuckle in each ear canal, sighing contentedly. “Aaaahh, much better!”

“Kill yourself.” You command with a snarl when the earplugs flop to the floor.

He laughs, amethyst jeweled eyes twinkling in the flickering light. “I _said_ , made special just for you! Now check this out...”

He produces a dome-shaped wire mesh from behind his back. It’s lit up with more purple lights and looks menacing as fuck, pointed barbed edge curving downward like someone’s flexed and clawed hand. You feel yourself begin to tremble, perhaps out of fear or perhaps out of pain. The room is moving in confusing patterns and you pinch yourself to stay lucid.

“We _used_ to have a chair and all for the Winter Soldier, but... as luck would have it, aliens sure know how to kick up the technology a couple hundred light years. I got this one special...” You squeeze your eyes shut, blinking away as much of the throbbing coursing through your body as you possibly can, but it’s no use. It’s swimming in your blood, chewing into every ounce of strength you have.

You collapse on the floor as he advances, hands shoving the sharp mesh wires over the top of your head. It tears through your scalp as it descends, shooting current after current of electricity into your body. The scream it pulls from your mouth is one you’ve never heard before.

Your captor cackles in delight as he taps something against his ear. “ _Just_ _for_ _you_ , darlin’!”

\--

Steve and Bucky turn a sharp corner of the warehouse, already pummeling through two waves of HYDRA lackeys. Tony’s not far behind, taking images and scans of the facility. Natasha is with Sam, who’s taken a bullet to the gut. They’re both making their way back to their jet, readying her for flight.

The closer they get to your location, the more unease Steve feels about the entire thing. Tony’s warning rings in his mind—they _should_ have moved you already. But as he backtracks, he begins to think that this entire thing seems more and more about you than it is about the weapons. Bucky senses his anxiety and sends him quick glances as they continue. “She’s a tough girl, Stevie.”

Bucky prays it’s the truth.

When they kick down the door, they find you swaying in the middle of the room. The window’s been kicked out and a rope flops uselessly against the frame where someone’s used it to escape. He doesn’t think it’s your own exit, because you don’t look like you’re planning to leave.

You look like you’ve been waiting for them.

Bucky calls your name, watching the blood dripping down your face. The purple network of wires around your head looks like a futuristic crown of thorns, oscillating loudly. It bathes your features in its lavender glow. He knows something is wrong and reaches up to clamp his palms over his ears, but you’re quicker than him.

“On your knees.” You command.

The boys fall.

Steve stares at your vacant eyes and the swell of your right cheek, blue and bruised. The front of your suit is ripped open, its sides falling over your arms to reveal tears down your sternum and holes in your chest, gaping pits against bursts of green and orange. Your bare skin prickles in the breeze but you’re unaware.

“Tony!” He cries, hoping the communicator is working. “Turn up the music! They’re in her head!”

“Quiet.”

Steve’s mouth shuts on its own. Bucky is fuming at his side.

“ _Asset_. We’ve come for you, too.” Your knee raises itself in the air and lands upward on Bucky’s chin, immediately followed by an elbow to his nose, one palm pressed against the other fist for extra force. A hard crack rings through the room and he falls limp on the floor.

Steve shakes against his imaginary binds, trying every which way to find a loophole out of your enchantment. _It’s a suggestion_ , he reminds himself, _don’t listen to it_. He senses it blanketing his brain in an embracing, downy-soft warmth. It makes his body purr to relent to the charm. His knees feel wonderful against the stone floor. His mouth is happy to be shut.

You take a step left, raising your elbow again as you regard Steve coldly. “My regards, Captain.”

When your sharp joint lands on his face, the window blasts open and throws both of you into the wall. Steve catches you against his chest, knees still struggling to return to their folded state, unable to let go of the compulsion.

Floating on thrusters, Tony is blaring Black Sabbath in the helmet, hand extended, ready for another round in case you get back up. It doesn’t seem like it though, so he lowers his hand warily. Steve feels the mantle over his brain begin to evaporate as you drop slightly in his arms.

He wrenches the mesh from your head, tearing a new path as it lifts. He whispers an apology against your shouts of protests and crushes it in his hand.

Upon seeing the lattice fizzle to its death, you abruptly become a woman possessed. Before he can stop it, the knife Steve watched you strap to your thigh in the jet is between both your hands, spinning upward and driving itself into your chest.

Steve latches onto your wrist with a shout, struggling with you as the blood streams from beneath your collarbone, spraying him in deep red. You’ve managed to thrust the blade in between your first two ribs and show no sign of letting go.

“Stop it! Stop!” he cries, but every centimeter he pulls out only seems to aggravate your wound and it gushes harder. Tony zooms forward, pinning both your arms behind your back and Bucky stirs awake just in time to take over the task of controlling your thrashing limbs. You’re beginning to fight less, the influence of the device withdrawing its grasp the longer you’re without it.

“Hold her still.” Tony yells over the shriek of Ozzy Osbourne. Your eyes are blinking now, becoming aware of the knife sticking out from your body. “Oh god…” You sputter, blood spraying from your teeth, leaning back into Bucky. You’ve lost too much of it at this point; everything is blurring together.

“You’re not gonna like it, kid.” Tony shuts off the music and Steve hands him a knife from Bucky’s waist. He produces a laser from his pointer and it turns the metal red-hot and sizzling.

Recognition passes over you in a split second before Steve yanks the blade out from your chest, and your whimpers blend with the hiss of Tony pressing the sweltering steel on your skin, cauterizing the flesh upon impact. You jerk futilely against Bucky, who’s taken a note from your book and has grappled you so well that you’re virtually immobile. Steve’s hand is splayed out on your bare abdomen, holding you down despite your cries.

The smell of your own self burning is nothing you’ve ever experienced before—and all four of you flinch when it hits: charcoal-y, metallic, nauseatingly sweet. A piece of taffy, dipped in copper, burnt to a crisp.

\--

 

The ride back is even worse than the one you took to Israel.

Tony pilots the jet in silence, skimming over the notes he’s taken diligently. Sam is well enough to sit upright, having the bullet removed by Natasha and bandaged up with care. Steve is in the seat next to Tony, aggressively cracking his knuckles every few minutes and grinding his teeth so hard everyone can hear. It looks like he’s reading, too, but his eyes keep scanning backwards to watch you, lying in the back under a blanket, makeshift IV hooked into your arm, the backup blood supply somewhat returning you to consciousness.

Bucky sits against the wall on the floor, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the scratches on your crown.

“They did it.” He says into the silence of the cabin, “They found a way to reproduce the chair. It’s portable now.” His entire body is shaking, the memories of being strapped down and ruined assailing him. He had brushed against the possibility once more tonight, when you knocked him unconscious. One misstep and he could have easily woken up as the Soldier again for another 70 years.

He understood that absent stare the instant he saw you. He wishes he could be mad, because his nose stings something awful, but they took you just the same way they took him. Bucky reaches over with a piece of gauze and wipes a trickle from your eyebrow.

“We’ll figure it out, Barnes.” Natasha consoles him, but the caustic scowl he shoots her makes her sigh and close her eyes.

Bucky stifles a breath when your hand slowly finds his boot, dirty fingers tapping against the rubber sole. “Sorry… bout.. your … face…” You wheeze, pointing weakly to the dried blood on his upper lip. Only your left eye is open—just a hairline sliver, before it shuts again.

Before you go back under, you hear Bucky’s hollow laugh, trying his best to make a joke for your sake.

“This ol’ mug? Shoulda seen it before.” He squeezes your hand lightly, “You did me a favor, sweetheart.”

\--

 

Two days pass in the med bay before the doctors clear you to return to your quarters. You spend the two days lying immobile, letting them draw blood and run tests. You’re infection-free, virus-free, shrapnel-free, mind-control-free, and stuffed full of saline and butterscotch pudding.

The team takes turns visiting you but most of the time you send them away. There’s not much you’re willing to share or divulge that they can’t see from your body—or that Tony won’t read from your eventual write-up. You’d rather save it for another time.

He’s probably holed up again in the lab with Banner, investigating that fucking purple, chicken-wire, crumpled, shit-stain hat HYDRA put on you.

The thought of it makes you want to…you didn’t know what. Killing yourself would have been too easy on both you and them.

You were in there when it stole you-- when he shoved it over your skull, you were still cognizant of your surroundings and actions, watching every passing second. The drugs made you physically docile, but whatever cocktail of tranquilizer he injected tore your consciousness wide-open, bare and exposed to something else that easily slipped in. _Him._

He was on the other line, making you move, making you hurt. Using you as a vessel for his will.

That sickening memory of being 16 was beginning to creep up at night, jolting you awake every time you came close to peace. That horrible worm, chewing though every brain cell you had was becoming one with that amethyst-eyed son of a bitch. Your nightmares of walking into bustling traffic began to meld with the image of Bucky, battered on the pavement between two tires. Every time you looked down, your chest would be punctured again, suit torn open, Tony pushing a fiery poker on you, Steve holding you stationary, sprayed and sopping with your blood until he was two blue marbles in a red velvet sea.

That woman’s face in the paper, Suicide on Page Five, staring up at you with sad, dead eyes.

And then his voice would be in the distance, calling you _darlin’_ as you watched helplessly on while your marionette body moved to the tune of disembodied cackling.

You’re somewhat proud that you haven’t cried yet, but you know it’s coming behind the numbness. In the med bay, you pushed the morphine trigger so often that they eventually took it away.

The reality is that you know exactly what the others don’t want to say:

It has been a carefully planned attack from the get-go; the club and weapons were ruses to provoke your investigation. You were the target all along. HYDRA wants to weaponize your mutant power, and what you did to Steve and Bucky in Israel was just the rehearsal.

\--

The wheelchair moves clumsily down the hall as you roll yourself into the conference room. They didn’t request your presence, but it felt stupid not to be in a meeting that was primarily about you. Steve’s brief concern passes in a flash and becomes replaced with his careful mask.

The heated conversation that you could hear from the outside hushes upon your entrance.

“You should be resting.” Steve says, careful not to linger over your wounds. The cauterized mark under your collar has blackened into a dried scab, and even your advanced healing has slowed to a sluggish pace—bruises still stain your chest, travelling upwards onto your neck. Your wrists and ankles are purple. It makes him burn inside with wrath, a vengeance he’d only known in the past when he found Bucky again.

“Rest this _dick_ , Rogers.” You mumble, straightening the wheels indignantly and wincing when your wrists ache-- for whatever reason, still upset at him. “I’m not going to lie down in my room like an invalid while you guys Gossip Girl my ass.” You didn’t mean for it to sound so _mean_ , but the words tumble out of your mouth anyway. When you see the hurt in his eyes, you apologize, putting your head in your hands under the worried glances of your team.

You’ve had two exhaustingly long days of constant nightmares, which is nothing more than a blink into Bucky’s mind. It makes your entire body cold with fear and sympathy.

“I’m sorry—I just... look, this is about me. This fucking mutant gene, this compulsion... they don’t just want it, they want _me_. HYDRA didn’t just make the chair portable.” Bucky’s eyes snap up at the mention of his old tormentor.

“They want me to be the new chair.”

His fists are clenched so tightly he’s shaking on the smooth surface of the table.

“If that was the plan, then why…” Sam gestures to the blackened bolt. Three inches south and you would have driven it right through your heart.

“That was for you, Captain.” Vision says plainly, “So that you may see the extent of their control. So that you may be reminded of the Sergeant.”

Yes, even Vision could see that it was all for sport, for someone’s entertainment. Somebody flexing their prowess. They even let you keep the stupid device, likely stocked up with a million more elsewhere.

You are the missing piece in the rest of their game.

Your head begins to hurt again and Natasha notices. “Let’s break for lunch and we’ll come back in an hour.” She suggests, getting up to grab the handles of your chair. Bucky stops her hand and stands instead, pushing you slowly out of the room.

—

 

Bucky places you in front of your quarters before spinning the chair around and getting on his knees, elbows on the armrests. He lowers himself until his eyes are beneath yours, and he’s gazing up at you with such earnest fear that it banishes any snarky joke you could make up to try to quell the tension.

“Do you remember it?” He asks, almost inaudible.

You nod, knowing what he’s referring to.

“Good.” He says, eerily calm as he mimics each bob of your head, “Then you know I can’t go back there.” His teeth are clenched, jaw bulging with the pressure. “They will unmake me, _Name_, and it won’t be you as my controller.”

You close your eyes and swallow hard at his admission. You think of Bucky, entombed inside his own mind, railing against the bars, watching his body kill impassively. You find a semblance of comfort somewhere dark—a cowardly move to ease your own shame.

“It felt different when you were in my head,” he breathes dreamily, recalling the perfumed compulsion, “It was almost good, like I thought it up myself. I won’t be allowed that courtesy next time. I don’t know the extent of your powers, but I do know that HYDRA will find out.”

The comfort flees from you and scatters to specks in Bucky’s eyes as he scans your face. The two of you share the knowledge together: it didn’t matter if your enchantment felt good compared to the wipes he’s known. Either way, there would be killing. Either way, you would both be weapons again.

He takes a deep breath and reaches behind you to open your door. The smell of his shampoo floats into your nose as he hovers over the chair. When he pulls back onto his position in front of you, Bucky’s gaze drops to the floor.

“Are you… dreaming?”

It was a simple kindness, something only he could empathize with, but it breaks you open, and you bury your face in your hands and sob.

You tell him what you see when you can’t sleep—his face, smashed between your knees, or underneath car tires outside a café; Steve gripping your bare torso as Tony burns your vessels shut; the voices ordering you gleefully to hurt yourself and everyone around you. It hurts all over again, and blurs into the guilt you hold inside your heart about your own powers. When he shushes you and puts his arm around your waist, you clam up, suddenly fearful of repeating another night at that small apartment, tucked into Steve’s arms.

Bucky frowns when you yank your body from him, subduing your twitching mouth and turning it into a faltering smile.

“Sorry.”

You roll backwards into the darkness of the room and kick the door with a slam.

 

Bucky looks over his shoulder where the tip of Steve’s nose can be seen past the corner of the hallway. The Captain steps forward into view and gazes longingly at your door and the dark shadow underneath. He releases a shuddering breath, full of pain.

“We have to find them, Buck. Neither of you are safe until we do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh so I guess I can't stay away from two things: present-tense and torturing the reader. If you're still following it, thank you SO much, and there will be ... smut... soon... but like, for now... I've got the plot tight in my hand and I'm not letting go. (crying) The burn is SO slow.


	9. Compartments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Steve have a talk and you finally admit somethings to yourself.

Steve stirs awake days later in the same cycle he’s been stuck in since the aftermath of the mission: hands patting up and down his chest, expecting sticky crimson. They come up to his face clean as usual, yet somehow, he can still feel the warmth in-between his fingers. His bedside alarm clock reads 3 in the morning—two hours before his regular time to rise.

He automatically lumbers over to his desk where copies of Tony’s research are spread out, covering every inch of the mahogany. He sits down on the squeaky leather chair, flips on the lamp, and stifles a yawn into the back of his hand. Steve begins the dutiful work, already knowing it will leave him frustrated.

They’ve hit an impasse, unsure where to traverse next because there are no leads. Israel has refused to cooperate, the government citing the destruction of the thirty-block warehouse district as massive negligence on the United States’ part. Tony’s been fielding calls and attending conventions all week with the higher ups and left Steve in charge of piecing the parts together. Usually it’s Captain America who goes with him, being a media darling and all, but considering the current disdainful spotlight right on the image of American superheroes themselves, he sees it fit to stay home this time. Additionally, he was taking the failure of this last mission _very_ personally.

So he wakes up in odd intervals of time every day to scrutinize the same three stacks even if he hasn’t got shit to show for it, other than the bags under his eyes.

The rest of the team tries to be as helpful as they can, and he often pores over the papers next to Natasha and Sam, keeping most of it from Bucky, afraid to trigger him. It’s an easy task considering that he hasn’t seen much of Bucky at all.

Tonight, he knows that Banner is sleeping in the laboratory as he analyzes your blood and the tests from your time in the med bay. He’s reconstructing the mesh secretly, under Steve’s supervision. It’s annoyingly time-consuming and full of the exact kind of language Steve doesn’t understand, so he leaves Banner to it on his own.

You are doing a little better, day by day, but Wanda comes to your room at night to quiet the nightmares. It doesn’t always work because in the throes of your terrors, you command her to kneel, and she’s once stayed in the position for hours before Vision found her.

Still, they try to be helpful.

And you’re walking now, for the most part.

You even start to talk to him again.

 

It begins when you limp from your quarters because you’re too stubborn to stay in the chair and too proud to use the walker, which has been thrown as far down the hall as your right arm can fling it. Over a late-night bowl of cereal, you say hello. You even call him by his first name, a quiet, _Hey, Steve--_ something he hasn't heard in almost two weeks.

It makes him ache to realize that it’s only been two weeks, and yet it feels like an eternity. And everything has changed.

“You doin’ okay?” He asks, putting the box you’d managed to finagle down back up to its place in the pantry. Over a crunching mouthful, you shrug, wincing when the granola chafes a sore spot. “Can I do anything for you?” You shake your head. “How are... how’s the … healing?”

You roll your eyes because it’s _almost one_ , Steve. If you were healing well, you wouldn’t be awake fumbling around in the kitchen.

Steve hushes when you unbutton the top of your night shirt, showing him the raised edges of the lesions—mended now, but still dark and discolored. The lines up your chest are closed, too, and the cauterized scab has started to peel.

“No more bunny suits for me.” You give him your best impression of a smile and he’s kind enough to smile back.

“You can still do the beer trick though, right?”

Snorting in response, you start buttoning up the shirt again, “Better believe it. Give me table and a bottle and I’ll hose your ass.”

The two of you fall back into silence, and Steve accepts it for what it is: a start.

Steve knows he’s staring. But he can’t help it. He hasn’t been able to think straight in two goddamn weeks and at first, it’s because of you, and now—well, it’s still because of you— but for so many different reasons. It was easier when he was upset with you, but now he’s upset with himself because you’re wobbling on your way to the sink and it’s _all his damn fault._

 _He_ took you on that mission. _He_ brought you to Israel. _He_ delivered you wrapped up in a bow to HYDRA. _He_ flicked the domino that knocked all the others down, and now you, Bucky, Tony, Sam—who took a bullet, Wanda—who’s knees are still red, are all scattered about and miserable.

The collar of your nightshirt dips forward as you lean against the counter, stepping gingerly. It gives him just enough of a peek back under to see that wretched black band and the purple veins that crawl from it. He gulps at the memory of that moment, having to hold you down out of necessity, your eyes wide and petrified. Wrenching the knife from your chest is a sensation he desperately wants to banish. He knows you would have bled out, but the memory of your body shaking against him imprints in his brain.

When he wakes up feeling sticky and smelling copper, Steve also wants to break both of his hands.

 

He catches the bowl before it shatters and lets you knock into him as you try to find your footing, arm snaking around to hold you up.

“_Name_?” His eyes are so big and worried, enormous blue crystal balls that reflect the scars on your face.

“Oh fuck off!” You screech involunatrily but make no move to pull away—mostly afraid that you’d fall if you do. “I’m fine, Steve!” You loudly berate him, feeling yourself getting riled up just thinking about how sad he looks all the time. He’s been looking at you like this for _days_. It reminds you of that night again, in the apartment, when you completely fucked this relationship up.

Steve’s brow furrows, pinching together, creating creases on his forehead as he places your cereal bowl in the sink. “Why are you yelling?”

“Because you’re _pissing me---_ ”

You watch his hand pull away from the concave basin of the sink and a flash of panic courses through you as you catch sight of his palm. It’s only coming down to rest by his side, but for a split second you think he might land it on your sternum again, like that moment in the warehouse.

“I’m sorry.” He says quickly when he makes the connection, shoving his offending hand into his pocket in a bulging fist.

Your chest starts rising and falling too fast and you have to berate yourself to still your noisy heartbeat. Steve shoves his hand deeper, as if he could make it disappear.

“No-- shit...!” Your voice falls to a whisper as you squeeze your eyes shut. _“I’m_ sorry.” You sigh, steadying your hip against the counter and taking his arm from your back.

“ _I’m_ sorry. For yelling at you… a lot, recently. Nat always said I was an asshole.”

You’ve never been good at this part—confronting your mistakes. It aches more than the bruises and stings worse than the blade. You squeeze his hand and pull the other one from the pocket of his pants.

Steve looks at you with his lips pressed together and you recall the heady wine exhale from two weeks ago. His chest against your cheek- warm and broad, catching tears from your eyes. His hand around your body as you lulled off to sleep, both of you clothed yet close.

His hands are huge and warm in your small grasp. _He_ is warm. It creates a lump in your throat because you finally allow yourself to confront the truth.

It would be stupid to continue to deny that it had felt anything other than good, to be with someone who could understand that aspect of your life, finally able to merge the two for one brief and sweet second. You knew that even at the club, when you danced together, his scent enveloped you, beckoning you to let him in. The childish thrill of chasing the stern and commanding Steve Rogers was your first instinct and riling him up and twisting his desire around your finger was something you were an expert at. But you didn’t foresee yourself yearning for someone’s presence… or kindness.

And yet you did. He made it seem so painless with those curious questions and gentle eyes. Paired with the wine and fatigue, you let yourself travel too far that night, just to turn tail and run back the next morning. You tried to ignore it and mask it with anger, but you did pine for it--- for someone to acknowledge you, to see you, as you truly were. Steve Rogers just so happened to be that someone; he made the possibility seem so effortless.

You know that now, as you hold onto his hands in the kitchen, thumbs brushing over his knuckles. The impulsive desire to lock your fingers with his flickers in you, and you struggle to bury it.

Even if he could care for you, you think bitterly, snapping from your daydream, it would never last. You know that from experience. This always happens. So just like before, to save yourself the heartbreak, you bury it.

 

Steve squeezes your hand ever so slightly and you jerk up to look at him. He’s waiting cautiously, expectantly, for a spark of reconciliation, but you know you can’t give it to him.

You finally let him go.

“It was a mistake. _My_ mistake. We can accept what happened at my apartment, and the club, and we can move on like adults. We’re teammates and we need to work together, especially now.” Your head nods with every syllable, because you're convincing yourself as much as you are trying to convince him. Steve’s eyes return to his feet and the barest hint of a smile perks up the corner of his lips. It’s uncomfortable and cagey, like he’s swallowed a big pill that’s now stuck in his esophagus.

“Sure.”

He opens his mouth but closes it quickly. It happens a couple more times before he exhales a long-suffering sigh and submits himself to the discomfort of his previous smile. _Okay_ , he thinks, _it’s for the best_. He pushes everything he thinks he might personally feel for you away.

“Can I look over some files with you?” You ask, steering the conversation into safer waters.

“Yeah, they’re in my room.” He replies, shaking his head and taking a step towards his quarters. He motions for you to follow but pauses on the second step. “... I’ll bring them out here.”

He’s playing it safe too.

When he exits the kitchen, you lean your head back in frustration and groan softly.

 

Bucky comes in after a shower, towel slung over his shoulder as he digs around in the fridge for something to drink. You’ve made your way back to the dining room table to sit, awaiting Steve’s return with your head laid down on top of your arms. The door closes with a squeak, and Bucky turns, sloshing a half-empty carton of orange juice around before pouring it directly down his throat, eyes locked on you.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him since he wheeled you to your room, and you’re glad he’s back to pretending, too.

You stare in mock disgust as he points to the recycle bin, halfway across the room and chucks the empty carton right in. He takes a seat across from you and folds his hands together. In its own depressing, shitty way, it makes perfect sense that the three of you are awake at this time of night.

“Steve’s getting the docs. You want to stay, James?” You ask, cheek pushed against the bent angle of your elbow.

“You two make it back to speaking terms again?”

You run a hand through your hair, because “speaking terms” is making a wild assumption for the future.

“We’re fine.” You say instead, “Hunky-dory, apple pie.”

He nods with a smirk, “Fucking _finally_.”

\--

It’s an hour of reading separate write-ups and cross-referencing multiple missions before you find a picture from the stack that makes you pause. Files are spread out all over the dining room table between the three of you, and even though you’re careful as can be about sorting them neatly back in their proper receptacles, too many fingers and hands are moving at the same time for you to really be sure. You sit at the end of the table with Bucky and Steve to your sides.

“Who is this?” You ask when a familiar outline stars to tickle a thread of recollection.

The boys freeze, dog-earring their documents before peeking over at the photo you’ve turned around to show them. Bucky shakes his head, but Steve takes the glossy paper from your hand and rotates it back and forth in front of his face.

“This looks like the buyer,” He mumbles, “From the club.”

He looks curiously at you before he grabs a manila folder to his right and removes the photos from it, laying them out in a line next to each other. You see a picture of the club front- bright pink neon sign next to a white and green martini glass. There’s a picture of Anton, his bodyguards, at least three of whom you recall shooting in the sealed back room. There’s another picture of the buyer, all small 6x4 shots on glossy photo paper.

These pictures had been taken from a distance, discreetly. You know so because you were the one who’d taken them.

At the end of the array lies a stark contrast, a picture of you, leaning forward and pulling on the strap of a stiletto. The floppy ears atop of your head droop just low enough to obscure the cleavage that threatens to spill from the flimsy silk suit. Someone (probably Tony) must have taken this to pester you. Your eyes are tilted up to look at the camera, lips sneering as you flick off the photographer.

Steve lets go of a joyful laugh upon seeing it, “Simpler times,” He pokes a finger at your middle finger, “Can’t believe how nervous I was.”

“Cause you’re a Prude Patty.” You chide, smirking before returning to the task at hand, gesturing to the picture of the buyer. “I remember him… kind of funny, almost. Like a dream.”

“From the warehouse?” Bucky asks, picking it up and studying it fixedly. If this was the guy, Bucky was going to make sure he’d never forget his face.

“I don’t know, but it’s something, right?”

“Yeah. It is. You _took_ these pictures, and you’d kept reliable tabs on everything. So why can’t you remember _him_?” Steve recalls your extremely detailed directions in his ears that night. You’d gotten the timing down to the _second_ , and you’d been sending Tony information for weeks about the meeting. He feels chills running up his spine.

You look from left to right, turning your head ever so slightly. Their expressions are dangerously grave as they begin to pack up the stacks. Steve starts shooting off directives about researching and contacting Tony, possibly reaching out to Maria Hill to mine any information she may have. He’s talking to Bucky about swinging by the club and grilling Anton, if he’s dumb enough to still be there. They clear the table lickety-split and Steve clutches onto the photo while Bucky stuffs the files under his flesh arm. You’re invisible to them until Bucky’s vibranium fingers reach over the surface to flick your photograph into your lap.

“We got it, _Name_.” He says quietly. “You go to sleep.”

With a huff, you grab the picture and fling it back into his face, watching the print bounce off his cheek with a tiny ping.

Steve crosses his arms and cuts you off before you can retort.

“You can hardly walk. We _got_ _it_.” His tone turns severe as he tilts his chin down so that you catch sight of the full force of his stare, “The sooner you’re better, the sooner you can be a part of it. For now, Bucky’s right; you need to sleep, and you need to heal.”

 _And we’re back to this,_ you wrathfully hiss to yourself, glaring up at Steve’s prominent jaw as he narrows his eyes at you. That’s just perfect. He’s got his Captain America face on and everything. Steve Rogers could give you a run for your money when it comes to compartmentalizing.

They turn on their heels and march from the room, not giving you another glance. You’re too weak to run after them, and they know it. Grumbling as they depart, you slump in your chair and attempt to hold back a snarl, muttering, “Very funny, dickwads. Like any of us are sleeping anymore.”

They hear it, even though they’re almost halfway down the hall. Steve and Bucky send each other sympathetic glances when your hushed sniffle reaches their ears. Since the mission, between the three of you, there’s a shared total of six hours, plagued by the same harrowing visions of blood and command.

Steve stomps onward, fists clenched at his sides as they swing past his thighs. Bucky follows suit, and the two of them streak vengefully down the hallway.

-

An hour later, Bucky sits in a booth at the strip club, gloved hand passing off a few bills to a dancer as she swings by him. At the sight of two green Benjamins, she turns around and parks her ass in his lap, squeezing her legs beneath the table and leaning back until her hair rolls over his shoulder.

“VIP room’s 300, baby.” She offers. “You want the whole package deal?”

“Yep. Let’s go.”

Bucky makes eye contact with Steve, who’s leaning over the glass bar, asking the waitress questions while she punches in an order. The security detail is lacking tonight; there’s no sign of Anton just yet, and nobody’s noticed them. Good. He knows Steve would rather not cause a scene, so he follows the Captain’s lead.

Unfortunately, Steve _is_ a prude, so Bucky’s taken on the responsibility of talking to the dancers. This one, seems to be in charge—or at least has worked here for a while—by the way she’s circled the room like a lioness, staking her territory.

She leads him into a curtain of sparkly beads that knock together as he passes through.

“Name’s Heaven. But if you want to call me your girlfriend’s name that’s fine too. Whatever works for you, baby.” The way she says it makes him grimace, but he appreciates that she can tell he’s unquestionably _not_ interested.

Behind the door is a separate large room of various tables and chairs, set up to receive small parties. Even past that is a hallway that splits the chamber into two sides, sectioned off by more compartment booths and heavy curtains.

It’s somewhat fancy, Bucky thinks. Well-decorated, save for the distasteful wall of polaroid pictures that line the insides of the booths. It turns what could be an elegant atmosphere into a tawdry one. Something catches his eye and he swerves abruptly into a middle section and shuts the curtain.

The dancer slides in behind him and pushes him into the chair. She starts to do her number, snapping the cords of her thong against her hips, swaying back and forth. Bucky puts his finger up and makes her stop before he tears a picture off from his right.

“Who is this?”

“I don’t kno—”

“I’m _extremely_ serious. Who is this?” His tone startles her, but the disguise of assertion returns to her face as she crosses her arms beneath her breasts.

“Can’t you read? You want her instead? It’ll be _extra--_ she’s not even a dancer _._ ”

On the white strip under the developed picture is the name “Jane”, in-between quotation marks and all. You’re smiling in the middle of the frame, holding two beers, a tiny white oxford tied in a knot to expose your abdomen.

But it’s not you he’s referring to.

In the background is the unfocused shape of a man’s profile. The buyer. Bucky’s got it soldered so deep in his brain now that he could draw it blindfolded.

It’s happened too often now to be just a coincidence. Bucky feels his heart slamming in his chest at the possibility of finding a solid lead to start with. This son of a bitch has _got_ to be the guy. He digs in his pocket and produces five hundred more dollars. The dancer gasps when he shoves them into her bikini top and holds up the polaroid to her nose.

He tasks her with rifling through the rest of the booths for more images of “Jane”.


	10. A Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10 Chapters in... here be smut, readers. Thank you for your patience and for your kindness.

Natasha knocks on your door a few days later, and you let her into your nearly demolished room. You had somewhat regretfully thrown a massive tantrum once you returned to your quarters the night Steve and Bucky left and wrecked as much as you could with your useless limbs. You’ll tell Natasha later that it’s a reflection of your inner turmoil, which it is—busted furniture to represent your busted body and mind; an accomplished piece of performance art.

She looks around at the chair knocked over, desk haphazardly pushed up and leaning on the loveseat and the wall, precariously balanced. Your clothes are dispersed all over the floor, all the hangers in the closet empty. The round glass of the ceiling light has been smashed somehow and the lightbulb flickers when you turn on the switch.

“Hey.” She says, flipping the light off.  

You tumble back onto the bed as she stands by the window, fixing the torn curtains as much as she can. “Feels familiar.” You mutter.

“It does.” She responds. “They’re back, by the way.”

You shrug. You know they are, you had F.R.I.D.A.Y. alert you as soon as they landed, but it’s not like it matters because if they had found any good leads, they would have come to you first. Steve and Bucky have both been uncommunicative, so you figure nothing productive came from their venture back to the club or their travels hunting down Anton.

“Yeah? Rogers finally get a lap dance this time?”

Natasha snorts. “There’s only one person he wants a lap dance from.”

“You’re talking about Barnes, right?”

She laughs loudly at your deflection and makes her way to your bed, pinching your shoulder playfully, “You’re _such_ an asshole.”

The Widow sits down by your side and tugs on the hem of your oversized shirt. You relent to her as she pulls it up to look over your wounds. It’s been about a week and they’re getting better. Most of the scabs have fallen off and what remains are raised scar tissue and puckered skin. Parts of you are still thin and ruddy, but you’re well enough to manage a mediocre jogging pace on the treadmill, at least. It’s leaps and bounds better than being in the wheelchair, but the lack of regimen has taken a toll on your body, previously muscular and strong, now quickly reduced to softer, leaner flesh.

It makes you feel untrained and premature—a green sapling in comparison to your previous strength. It makes you impatient.

“Getting antsy?” She asks, as if reading your mind. At your smirk, she advises, “You could never sit still.” Natasha lets your shirt back down and sighs, placing a hand on your hip.

You know her well enough to understand her concern through the silence. You tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear in response. _I’m sorry. Thank you. I’m trying._

She gives you a small smile before she leaves, and it makes your chest constrict. It seems like everyone you know sooner or later gives you that look. Natasha calls your name a final time from the door.

“Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

-

You take a long bath before trying to sleep that night. The water soaks into your skin and fluffs up the edges the final scab on your chest. You push at it with your wrinkled finger until it shifts and lifts completely off, floating on the surface of the bath benignly.

The skin beneath stings with freshness, tiny follicles brimming with pinpricks of blood. You dry off and slap a band-aid over it before dressing.

Wanda comes by, wondering if you’d be requesting her presence tonight. As much as you know she wants to help, it’s become somewhat of a disturbing burden for her, and it’s cruel of you to hitch her to it. So, you thank her but refuse; she’s had her fair share of HYDRA tortures, and you don’t want to be the cause of anyone else’s nightmares in the facility.

Once again, you’re alone. You begin to pace.

 _Fuck_.

The energy inside of you has manifested threateningly now that you’ve got more of it _to_ manifest. You’ve been building yourself back up at a fucking _snail’s_ pace, trying to restore your body’s strength. You’re restless to return to your old self and you certainly want to be in top form in case you receive any good news—after all, tearing off that purple-eyed motherfucker’s head might be hard if you can’t even toss the medicine ball around.

You throw yourself backwards against the pillows and reach for your phone face-down on the nightstand to browse aimlessly through the news. There are notifications you’ve yet to look at, but the green button with the speech bubble makes you ache with craving.

You miss _that_ , too.  
Natasha’s warning surfaces as you tap on the screen.

The thread you’ve abandoned with Oliver last week stares at you, his message _Where’ve you been?_ blinks with anticipation. There are a couple more invitations from others— _Hey lovely,_ and _I’m in the Village, can you meet?_ and, the concise, straight-to-business siren song of _WYD?_

You lament the prospect of either explaining your new scars or compelling your dates into ignorance. The frustration hits in another agitating wave and you muffle your face in a pillow to scream.

Sighing into the darkness of the room and distracted scratching at you chest, you let your eyes close.

\--

Sometime during the fitful sleep, the eerie tickle of something oozing jerks you awake.

Your band aid has completely bled through, saturating your grey shirt in dark ruby. Bringing your hand up to touch it in the dark, you shriek when you feel the sharpness of a knife against your fingers.

Steve appears in front of you, crimson-drenched and glaring, his hand pushing into your torso until it hurts so much you can’t breathe. His other one has clasped onto the handle and he rams it deep until it tears through your back.

Suddenly he falls to his knees and you clamber up to stand. The light in your room works again, but it flickers twice before it falls from the ceiling and swings back and forth, illuminating a dingy concrete square. Your eyes struggle to adjust as the pendulous bulb drones on.

The window behind you blows open and you fly into the wall.

You’re screaming again when Bucky appears, seizing you until your limbs flop feebly to your sides. He grabs hold of your right arm and snaps it in half with a single, earsplitting crack. At the joint of your elbow, your forearm grotesquely hangs down to graze the concrete floor, twitching fingers kissing the cold.

Steve’s knees are bloodied as he stands, walking forward until he’s hovering over you. Bucky speaks Russian into your ear, voice low and throaty, and you know he’s no longer himself. The syllables spin, rolling ‘r’s and vibrating z’s invade your thoughts. Somewhere in your mind, you know he’s been returned to his reduced state; he’s become the Soldier again.

Steve descends and jerks the blade from your chest with every word. Each syllable of the language sends shockwaves of electricity throughout your body, as if he’s activating you, too. It numbs and burns, mingling until you feel nothing else.

_Желание. Семнадцать. Ржавый._

Steve slashes again and again until you’re nothing more than shreds of skin and sinew.

“Your fault.” He says. “Your fault. Your fault. Your fault, darlin’!”

As Steve cuts, the Soldier begins to call your name. It’s sweet and unnatural and you inexplicably cry for him. You deserve this. You know it.

“Get up.” Steve commands with a smile. “Get up.”

\--

“Get up! _Name_! Get up!”

It takes you a few minutes to realize you’re back in your own bed again and jerk fully awake with a loud gasp. The sticky front of your shirt is twisted in someone’s grasp and your body is hanging from it.

“Steve!” You cry as your hands wildly pat him, “Steve!? Oh God! Steve. It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!”

You’re slippery with sweat, trembling all over, and you throw yourself into his arms before you realize what you’ve done. There are tears and babbling, your fists balled up against his legs, you’re collapsing in his lap as you repeat the apology like an invocation.

“I made him do it. I made him. I made him into the Soldier again.” You bury your face into his shoulder and weep shamefully, “Steve, he’ll never—he’ll never… oh God I’m frying his brain. I’m taking him back to that room. I hurt him again. I _hurt_ him.”

His arms wrap around you, pulling you tight, rubbing circles on your back, trying to shush your prattling. “Stop it,” he says, and it makes you halt just a little bit when you distinguish a specific speech pattern—a smear of how he pronounces the ‘s’ in his words, the ‘o’ too round to be Steve.  

He’s cold on his left side, a parallel to the temperature on his right.

He commands you with that distinct overrun ‘s’ again. “It wasn’t _you_. Snap out of it.”

You slowly sit up, obeying the command.

Panting and unshaven, Bucky holds your shoulders and stares into your eyes with an intensity so formidable that it wicks your tears away. You’re recalibrating your brain to his presence, trying to figure out how and why he’s here. He brushes the hair from your face with a disappointed frown, fingers lingering over the cuts on your temple. You watch him stare at the marks as you let go of a final shuddering exhale.

Slipping your eyes shut, you mutter, “But I did it, Bucky. It was still me.”

Bucky feels his mouth pull itself into a frown, crushed upon hearing the statement.

He’s transported back into that time in the ship with Steve, on their way to the Siberia where Zemo awaited them. He’s mumbled those exact words when confronted with the possibility of forgiveness. He knows exactly what you feel right now—that vicious and blistering guilt that neither of you can do anything about. He knows there’s nothing he can say to make you stop. There was nothing for him then, either.

 

Bucky shakes his head and pats your shoulder gently. In his pocket are all the polaroids he’s pilfered from the strip club, and he was on his way to bring them to you this morning until he heard the shrieks down the hallway. Even muffled by the heavy wooden door of your room, he could hear the trauma in your rasping cries. It slightly pisses him off that everyone else has resigned to let you ride it out, like it’s just water off their back. He weighs the other options they have, and even if you send Wanda away, even if there’s not much to be done about it, it still just _irritates_ him.

Because he _knows_ those terrors. They never _really_ leave. For him, they’ve come back too.

So, he did as any somewhat friend, mostly teammate-- _at the very least_ \-- sympathetic survivor would have done, and shook you awake.

He forgets about the plastic rectangles in his pockets. He’ll save them for later.

You’ve calmed to the point of sitting still, staring at the bedsheets vacantly. Bucky lets go of your shirt and it falls back into place, smooth across your skin. He points to the bloodied shape by the collar and goes into the bathroom to retrieve more bandages. You lean against the headboard and wait, tucking your hand under the hem to gingerly tear the old bandage off. It’s floppy and crusting around the corners, peeling bits of your skin and fine hairs with it.

Hissing, you fling it over the bed, and it _splats_ on Bucky’s shoe as he exits the restroom.

“I hate you, kid.” He laughs.

The innocuous joke is poorly timed and your stupid eyes well up again, overflowing before he can reach the mattress. Bucky mutters an apology and rubs the heel of his palm against his eyes, cursing himself.

“I’m not used to this,” He says. He’s never seen you any less than snarky until extremely recently, and other than his typical sarcastic retorts, he has no idea how to carry a proper conversation. Bucky gives you a sad, lopsided smile before ruffling your hair—a benevolent reminder of how it used to be.

“Where’s the attitude, punk? Who’m I gonna get my punches in with? Can’t nobody get a nosebleed like you, kid.”

The barrage of insults works, and it makes you laugh weakly, snorting at his cheeky attempt to lighten the mood. Rubbing your face, you shrug the shirt over your shaking shoulders, thanking him.

You’re not used to it either you think as you look at him.

Bucky Barnes, your punching bag, your mission buddy, your terrible partner. You and Bucky, knocking each other down in training rooms, kicking ass and taking names, jeering at write-ups and flicking paper footballs across conference-table debriefings. You want it back to the way it was.

You miss the normalcy of it all- jokes, insults, verbal abuse. It’s just a hair away, barely out of reach. You want to go back to that fake-it-till-you-make-it pretend-carefree life you once had. Fighting, fucking, not crying. You want to go back to being _you._

In the dark, Bucky sits on the edge of your bed as you lift your shirt, pulling the wet spot from the re-opened wound. He turns away as he hands you the palm-sized band-aid and you know he’s doing it for your modesty. It’s ironic, you think, because in the warehouse, they touched you all over.

 _Don’t do anything stupid._ Natasha’s warning chimes belatedly in your ears.

You swallow thickly, fingers lingering too long on his as you take the paper slip from him and unwrap it. At the whisper of his name, he glances over before looking quickly away.

“James...” You breathe, pushing the potential remorse away; it’s unfair when you call him that—you know. You stick the bandage to your chest and pull the shirt back down. “I... don’t want to try sleeping again.”

The unspoken suggestion hangs in the air between your bodies. The use of his name, in a tone so soft and unlike your usual self makes Bucky’s skin prickle with gooseflesh. The two of you sit in silence, as if contemplating the consequences of your future actions. He feels the river forking in two directions, and if he trails you down the turbulent left stream, he could forget that agonizing burn in his mind when the rapids crash against him.

To his right is a cool and lonely path back to his room. It’s clear and sapphire, but the leaves along the channel are all wilted. He’d paddle once more in the dark. He thinks of the colors mixing together, and suddenly, Steve’s blue-green irises flash disappointment.

Bucky dodges the hand you reach towards him and stands abruptly, striding to the door.

“Sorry.” He says, and shuts it behind him.

-

He’s back half an hour later, barefoot. Shirtless. Eyes on the ground. You yank the damn thing open on the second knock.

“I’m not Steve.” He declares tersely.

You pull him in by the waistband and crash your mouth onto his. “That's fantastic.”

-

 

Bucky knows what led him back to your door. He knows what led him away, too.

He doesn’t think about either of those things as your legs hook around his waist. He thinks about the big open chasm of absolutely _nothing_ , and it’s the best feeling he’s had in days.

He picks you up easily, one arm under your thigh, the other around your back, stomping across the ruined room and shoving you onto the bed. You groan when he slides his body over yours, hands quickly removing your clothes and his, scooting you up the mattress to make space for himself. Your lips settle anywhere you can reach— his throat, chest, abdomen. He tugs on your hair when you bite too hard and pushes your face away.

The cabinet drawer rustles open as you reach inside for a foil packet. Bucky fiddles with the condom for a few seconds— huffing as he stretches the mouth of it before fitting it on, grunting as the elastic grips him with a snap.

He finds your entrance with two fingers, wet and willing.

You turn over on your tummy as he pushes himself in, hissing at the contact.

Bucky is heavy on top of your back, and you twist the sheets in your hands tighter with every slam of his hips. It’s _purely_ fucking-- disheveled and detached. Every smack, every grunt, every thrust. He’s large, wide, dominates you without words, only commanding your submission through his actions. Every time you lift your head, he pushes it back down with a yank of his hand in your hair until your bed sheets feel like they’ve permanently imprinted on your right cheek. It briefly registers as annoying until he hits a spot so sweet your lips curl into a smile instead.

“Wanna say something?” Bucky grunts, driving so deep it punches the air from your lungs. Your mouth opens, tongue flicking out to lick your teeth, pushing back the smartass comment for another time. With a satisfied laugh, you push yourself back into the pillow and return to the pants and moans.

It’s surprising—this level of acquiescence for you. Sex has never been so uncontrolled. With other lovers—Oliver, Dane, Erik, even women, _especially_ women, you were moderate out of necessity. Even on some wild night when Dane hooked your wrists into those silk ribbons and tied them to his bedposts, you felt like a child with a magnifying glass, redirecting sunlight onto the ant pile of his regular-human life. The power imbalance was always at the forefront of your mind.

You’ve never been fucked so roughly, and it makes your body purr when Bucky seems to know instinctively just how much you enjoy being taken by him. His hands grip your ass, slide up and down your sides, squeeze and claw. The sounds coming from your throat surprises even you.

Perhaps it’s the recent deprivation of intimacy, but you’re wetter than a damn slip-n-slide and more eager than a seventeen-year-old. You’ve never felt so impatient or desperate. You’ve never felt helpless like this before. Screwing other guys was _fun_ , sure, but never perilous. This feels perilous- with a teammate, with someone who was strong enough to genuinely subdue you, with… _Bucky_. Peril was new. Peril was _hot_.

His damp mouth finds the back of your neck, just beneath the notch of a vertebrae and bites a mark onto your skin, trailing to your shoulder. You mewl and moan as he continues to push into you, propelling you further to the peak of orgasm. His hand reaches underneath your hip to rub demanding circles against your clit and you shudder when he grunts against your ear.

You topple over the edge, throwing your head back when he finally lets you pull up. His shoulder is there to catch the base of your skull and you arch against him, muscles involuntarily pulsating in the throes, crying out, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, _oh_ _fuck_!”

Bucky turns you over, pulling out just for a second until you’re on your back. He watches your face contort in pleasure before a sudden wave of inhibition sweeps over. It’s gone when he plunges himself back in and you scramble to throw your legs over his shoulders, needing him even deeper than before. He reads your mind once again and takes both your ankles in his metal hand, pushing your legs back and readjusting himself until your entire body burns with the new contortion.

It feels like heaven when he grinds into you in this new position. Your eyes roll back in pleasure when another wave crests.

You climax with a small yelp, biting down on your lip to stop the scream from erupting and throbbing against him as he pulls another orgasm from your body. Bucky’s right behind you, hips juddering to a halt as he finishes. Sweat drips from his brow, landing into your splayed hair.

After a few seconds of alternating deep and shallow breaths, he rolls off and silently walks into the restroom. When he dresses, you clean up too.

“Thanks.” You say as he reaches for the doorknob.

“Yeah.” It clicks shut.

Underneath the muted sunbeams that poke through your shredded curtains, you fall into a dreamless slumber.

\--

Steve is waiting at Bucky’s door when he arrives. The vein in his neck pulses reflexively as his heart begins to speed up. There’s sweat still on his brow, and he reeks of sex, salty and warm, like the earth after a deluge of summer rain. His chest is glowing with pink spots and he’s sure some of those are in the shape of your o-shaped mouth sucking a bruise on him.

Steve looks him once over. _Shit._

But when he opens his mouth, he asks an innocent question that softens the thudding of Bucky’s heart. “You get back from a run?”

“Uh-- yeah... I did.” His slow-beating heart sinks into the pit of his stomach, full of acid, coating the lie.

“Huh,” Steve seems to catch a flicker of hesitation but pushes forward with his mission, “I need to talk to you. Meet me in the lab after breakfast, will ya?”

He turns to leave, padding down the hallway with one final look over his shoulder.

“And take a shower, Buck. Ya fuckin’ _stink_.”

\--

The creak of your door wakes you gently an hour later, and your eyes open to Bucky’s shadow moving over the light of the curtains. He’s uncharacteristically nervous as he stands by the window, mouth in a grimace. It’s such a rapid change from the sullen look he had when he showed back up at your door, and the confident swagger when he stripped you down.

You know the brief haze of desire has lifted, and that Bucky meeting the reality of the situation.

He chews on the side of his cheek before taking the chance to look at you. He’s thought about it the entire time since running into Steve. He knows that he’s not the tenderness you long for. When he fucked you, it was proof of that, and he embodied it even more to set himself apart from it—to drive his point home.

He’s _not_ Steve.

But he _is_ Steve’s friend. He’s Steve’s closest and oldest friend, his fucking best friend, among a sea of friends. It burns bitterly in his chest when he thinks about all of those other _true_ , _good_ , friends that Steve has. Bucky is sitting on top of that list, glorified and golden. He feels the halo of Steve’s adoration slipping down to choke him.

He wonders if he can even blame it on HYDRA. Would he have hurt Steve Rogers like this before the Memory Suppression Machine? Did he sleep with you because his personality has been so irrevocably damaged that he couldn’t comprehend how it would hurt Steve, or did he sleep with you because he’s actually a piece of shit?

You run your fingers through your hair and lean forward, looking into his turbulent eyes.

“Fuck.” He murmurs between clenched teeth.

“Did you like it?”

“Wh-what?”

“Did you like it? Yes or no. It’s simple, Barnes.”

He wonders why you’re calling him by that name now because it’s distancing, like you’re trying to step away from all intimacy. His eyes flit back and forth as you continue to stare, watching his expression for any hints. When it doesn’t seem like he’ll reach an answer any time soon, you do it for him.

“I did.” You say, nonchalantly, “I liked it a lot. I’d like to do it again.”

“But--”

“We are two consenting adults, and we can fuck each other. It’s not anyone’s business but ours.”

“But--”

“I’m not trying to trick you into anything, and I’m not playing you…” The edge of your mouth slides into a disapproving half-scowl, recalling the interrogation at the club. Bucky is staring _through_ you. “Jesus. Stop thinking about Steve. Steve and I aren’t a fucking thing. _Bucky_!” You hiss his name sharply to get his attention.

“I don’t want to be _anybody’s_ _anything_ —you understand?”

Bucky Barnes doesn’t understand _shit_ right now. So, you deconstruct it for him.

“I will never want to go out on a date with you, I don’t want to be your girl, and I don’t care if you sleep with other people.” He’s completely immobile against the curtain of light, outlining his broad shoulders and damp tendrils.

“I respect your privacy, and I treasure mine above all else.” He understands the implication; Steve would never know because _nobody_ would know.

A lazy smile passes over your lips before you throw the covers off, “It’s up to you, Buck. And it’s not gonna hurt my feelings if you say no.” You linger by the doorway of the restroom, sending one final smirk to Bucky’s rigid posture, still fixed in its location.

“At least I learned something new today,” You tease, looking him up and down. “You’re fuckin’ _good_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (crumbles) I keep hurting Bucky, don't I?  
> This is a relatively subdued chapter! It's, uh, gonna get weird again soon. Let me know what you think! xx


	11. What You Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extremely long chapter that sets up for future events. You engage in self-destruction and pull Bucky in with you. NSFW Alert! Gratuitous (and slightly masochistic) smut at the end.

**2008**  

 _The school bell rings promptly at 3:20, calling for the release of all students. A swell of children rushes out of the doors, accompanied by tired teachers who try to corral them in, hollering names_ _and_ _pointing to those who wander too far from each cluster._  

 _“_ _JJ_ _!” A woman calls from_ _the parking lot,_ _beckoning_ _to a girl with a purple backpack._ _Two small_ _braids swing behind her back as she rushes forward_ _, waving to her teacher and_ _grabbing hold of her mother’s hand._  

 _“Can we go to McDonald’s today?” She asks with a_ _coy_ _smile._  

 _“Hmm… Depends,” her mother_ _responds_ _, looking down at the child trying to avert her eyes demurely,_ _“Let’s see what daddy says.”_  

 _They both cross the lot, weaving between the rows of cars before arriving at their own dark green sedan. JJ hops into the back as her mother slides into the passenger’s place._  

 _“You have a good day,_ _babygirl?"_ _A voice calls from the driver seat as he starts the engine with a twist of his wrist. The car rumbles alive and soft music pours from the radio._  

 _“I did! I got a smiley face on my behavior chart and everything, daddy!_ _And I made a 100 on my math test! And, and it’s Friday…._ _”_  

 _“Hum. Is that right_ _?_ _Well, I wonder what you might want… since it’s Friday…”_  

 _The car reverses from between the two white lines and travels slowly out of the elementary school campus, careful of pedestrians. JJ waves to her friends and a white minivan honks at them amiably when they recognize each other._  

 _“Yes!” JJ shouts when two golden arches_ _come into view. She leans forward in her seat, hand pulling the belt across her chest and cheers into her mother’s ears. “Yes_ _,_ _yes_ _,_ _yes_ _,_ _yes! Mommy, can I go into the p_ _layplace_ _? Can you watch me climb on the rope ladder because I’ve been practicing at school and Mrs._ _Lehman says I’m really good!”_  

 _When the car pulls into a spot in front of the door, JJ leaps out from her seat and jerks the metal handle open with some effort, feet tapping as she waits for her two parents. “Come on!”_  

\-- 

 **Present Day**  

Bruce holds onto the top of the mesh wires with a careful grasp, hooking his fingertips into each metal hole. He turns it left and right on display for his small audience.  

Steve and Bucky stand, matching stances with their arms crossed and hips tilted, leaning their weight onto one leg. It reminds Bruce of how similar they are, even if the Captain is calm while the Sergeant is smoldering. 

“This device wasn’t made to last,” Bruce announces, “It’s more like a single-use item, and even if you hadn’t crushed it completely, by the time I got it, the technology already wiped itself so clean that there’s not much left.” 

“Well, what  _is_  left?” Steve asks, glaring at the reflective points that once shone purple. 

Bruce turns and points to a screen and it comes alive with his attention, scrolling automatically through his notes. The boys look around him as he places the helmet back down and fixes his glasses, glancing back and them every few words to make sure they’re still following.  

For the most part, they are. 

They learn that the headdress is in part, the memory suppression machine, using the same method of electroshock to scrub its target. It’s also a receiver, made to tap into a radio wavelength emitted only by one other object. This means that someone else was actively controlling _Name_ in the warehouse. He also tells them that her blood came back positive for clonazepam, diazepam, and such an incredible quantity of ketamine that he was surprised she was at all lucid on the plane. There were other trace amounts of opioids in the cocktail to make her complacent and dull, a blank slate to be worked on. Then the weapon’s electricity re-wired her synapses and activated her powers. 

“The device is just one single part. There’s a lot of drugs, a handler, and it doesn’t make any sense. If they just want _you--”_ Banner gestures to Bucky, who’s lips are pressed so thin it doesn’t look like he has any at all, “--why not just... I don’t know, take you? Right?” 

Steve nods solemnly.  

“Here’s the thing I don’t get—and I know there’s a lot of holes that need to be filled before any questions can be answered but... say they  _get_  you. What the hell are they gonna do with you? Stick one of these things on and control you that way? Or have her control you? That just doesn’t seem... economical...” Banner pauses and furrows his brow. 

“Did you get anything from that Anton guy?” 

“Diddly squat.” Bucky spits, “Motherfucker was swinging in a penthouse upstate when we found him.” 

“Suicide? That doesn’t---” 

Steve cuts him off. “No, I don’t think so either.” 

 

\-- 

 **2008**  

 _Small hands grasp onto the dirty once-cream colored rope, maneuvering for a more stable hold before bare feet lift up and slot themselves into the holes. JJ’s tongue is sticking out the side of her mouth in concentration as she wobbles on the rope net. “Gonna... get it! Almost... there!”_  

 _At top of the obstacle is a seat that leads her down the bright blue slide and she goes_ _headfirst_ _on her tummy like one of those Arctic penguins Mrs. Lehman has been teaching her about. The squeal that vibrates through the slide bounces all around before it quiets upon her emergence._  

 _JJ does a victory dance at the end, pumping her arms and knees and swinging her braids around._  

 _When she settles, she absently_ _looks_ _out the window, watching the cars go by full of other children that point and_ _bounce in their seats excitedly._ _In a small blue car across the walkway, JJ tilts her head at the shape of someone’s smile._  

 _“M_ _am_ _a?” She calls, walking back to the plastic table scattered with napkins and salt_ _granules_ _from when Daddy_ _dropped the packet_ _. “Mommy, who’s that?”_  

\-- 

 

 **Present Day**  

Tony Stark rubs his neck when he returns to the lab on a Saturday night, taking over for Bruce who sighs in relief at his presence—likely more for Natasha’s sake than his own. The man loves to  _science_ , a fact that Tony whole-heartedly appreciates. His girlfriend, on the other hand, was not as invested. Tony pops open two bottles of Red Bull simultaneously and cracks his knuckles, waving as Natasha loops her arm around Bruce’s waist at the door.  

Meeting after meeting, he’s become weary of defending the Avengers. It bleeds into international politics, laws, policy, money, time, his fucking sanity. As a group of vigilante-superheroes-ragtag-punchy-volatile-idiots, he hates them.  

As his friends, he’s fiercely loyal to them. 

Tony groans and shuts his eyes. Behind his witty retorts to an entire lyceum of officials, Tony Stark was a man who truly loves his friends, who would do anything for them.  

Even hurt them to save them.    
He shudders when he remembers the smell of burning flesh by his hands. He hadn’t seen you since the mission, and he thinks it’s time for an apology. 

 

You’re on the couch when Tony finds you. The lull of some rom-com is in the background, droning on with a piano melody that crescendos when the two main characters kiss after finding each other again. Sam claps as the credits roll, and Vision tilts his head curiously, voicing the strangeness of human desire and love. Wanda, in his lap, only chuckles and softly pinches his chin with her fingers. 

Tony leans over the back of the couch and peers down at you behind his tinted glasses. “You look …okay.” He nonchalantly blurts. 

“I feel okay.” You retort, knowing full well what he’s trying to say. You’ve never heard Tony apologize once in your life and you figure this is as good as it’ll ever get. He claps you on the shoulder before announcing, “Well, kid. Before either of us start getting teary-eyed, just want you to know, I signed you on for another six months in the city.” 

You twist your head around and stare at him, mouth open as he turns with a shrug of his shoulder. “I figure it’s the least I can do after barbecue-ing you in Israel. Don’t think I can ever be a cannibal; it didn’t smell very good.”  

Before Tony has even gone from the room, you’ve already leapt up and disappeared down the hall. He briefly thinks that it might not be a good idea- what with HYDRA out there somewhere, probably waiting for a chance to snatch you up, but the stinging guilt inside of him lets it be. 

 

With a duffel bag slung over your shoulder, you make your way to the garage on your tiptoes. A change of clothes for at least a couple of days has been thrown in the bag carelessly along with a few other things—make up, shoes, your tablet, a good book, an assortment of condoms. Your hands had excitedly scooped up so many baubles that you will likely not touch again.  

Your heart is thrumming with elation, every pore alight with energy as you try not to scream on your way to the elevator. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. You thought that studio was  _toast_. You were damn sure that Steve had someone go clean it out since the 30-days had passed. 

One hand holds tightly to the wide strap over your chest while the other scrolls through a series of texts and e-mails, foot bouncing. It was Saturday night and a couple local art gallery were having shows with free wine and _lots_  of people. Thank fuckin’ Christ. You’d been holed up for almost an entire month, fucked Bucky  _once_ , and then your own fingers for the rest of the week. It was  _shit_. 

You’ve been so wound up and pissed off that you’re itching for it. 

 

A hand on your shoulder stops you two steps short in front of the elevator. 

“Where are you going?” You look at the gloved appendage as it retreats to its owner. Bucky watches you with narrowed eyes as the sliding glass doors open quietly. 

“Tony got my apartment for another 6 months. I’m  _outta_ _here_ , Barnes.” You grin. 

You move towards the doors, but he steps around you and bumps you back into the hall with his chest. It makes you tumble a few steps, surprised at the contact. The glass slides shut and chimes insipidly behind him. 

“Get out of my way!” You throw your arms to the side of your body—half in frustration, half in a threat. You hadn’t seen him for days, how _dare_  he. 

“No.” 

“ _James_ ,” You hiss under your breath,  directing your ire on a single target.  “I’ve been fucking my own hand for almost a whole damn week. There’s a boy out there—maybe three, perfectly happy to take its place.   Do  _not_  do that again.”  

“Is that all you ever think about?” He responds angrily, rebuffing your warning and infuriated that you could be so short-sighted.  

You scoff at his insult because as much as he thinks it might hurt your feelings, it doesn’t. He doesn’t even  _know_  the half of it, and you’re not forthright enough to disclose to him that the only night you haven’t dreamed was when he fucked you so good your brain shut down. Since your offer, he hasn’t returned, so you’ve accepted it for what it is: a one-night stand. 

Like you promised, it didn’t hurt your feelings. However, it did create the  _worst_ kind of hunger inside of you.  HYDRA be damned. You’ll worry about that when it comes. Until then,  _you’re_ going to come. 

You’re well enough now to travel outside of the compound, and Tony’s surprise gift was the exact push you needed to leave. You want peace again. And fucking someone was going to help you do just that. It  _better_ , because you’ve thrown all your eggs in that basket. 

Tilting your face up to glower, you’re half a breath away from emphatically reminding him of his own self-indulgence from the other night. Bucky squares his hips and challenges you with a fiery gaze but before either of you can say anything else, Steve turns the corner and cocks his head. 

“What’s going on?” 

Leave it to Bucky to jump right on board and spill your plan to Steve, who grows more frustrated with every step closer to you and the single elevator that stands between this fucking concrete prison and your goddamn freedom. Steve takes a final step in front of you and puts his hands on his hips, jaw clenched tight. “You’re staying.” 

He’s got his Captain voice on, like it’s a serious deterrent. “Good try, Rogers. _You’re s_ _taying_ !” You mock back in a whiny high-pitched intonation before flipping them the bird with both hands—a juvenile but relevant response. “Eat my whole ass. There have been no leads, no clues—no,  _fuck_  the polaroids, Bucky.” You roll your eyes, showing him your palm when his mouth opens to shut him up.  

“I’m not a damsel, and I’m not a prisoner. What I am… is  _leaving_.” The glare you send between them is a promise that reminds them of the truth: the ace up your sleeve will careen the three of you back into the dark again, and you’re reckless enough to play it under these circumstances.  

The elevator dings as if F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s heard the finality of your statement and the door slowly slides open. When you push through them to leave, two voices chant the same statement. 

“I’m going with you.” 

\-- 

 **2008**  

 _“JJ! Baby,_ _let’s g_ _et going!_ _JJ?” The woman’s voice is high-pitched and_ _nervous_ _when her daughter_ _returns to the window of the_ _playplace_ _again for the third time_ _,_ _captivated by an empty parking spot. Her little finger_ _traces a blank outline of where a car used to be_ _as she blinks slowly_ _, recalling something nebulous from her mind_ _, like chasing a dream_ _._  

 _Her father picks her up and puts her on his hip,_ _pressing the back of his hand to her forehead for a temperature. She feels_ _normal as usual, so he lets it drop and quirks his head to look her over. Little eyelashes, big bright eyes,_ _peculiar_ _gaze behind his shoulder agai_ _n at_ _that the same damn spot._ _Her parents shake their heads at each other and walk to the far door on the other side of the building where the_ _dark green sedan is parked and waiting for them. The more distance they put between them and that empty parking spot, the_ _more frustrated their_ _daughter grows._  

 _By the time they’ve strapped her into the car, her eyes are squeezed shut and she’s_ _screeching._  

 _“I can’t remember!” She wails through the tears, “I can’t remember! I can’t remember!”_  

\-- 

 **Present Day**  

Sam Wilson whistles when you step from the tiny studio restroom with a black clutch under your arm. He’s leaning against the door with his feet crossed, dressed in nice jeans and an olive button up. Still in position, chin tucked to his chest, he raises his brow at your outfit of choice: a sleeveless red dress that stops mid-thigh. It fits tight like a glove and blares an attention-catching siren. “Hey there, killer.” He smiles, little gap in-between his teeth peering out at you. 

His two thumbs tap away on his phone, likely updating Steve with your whereabouts. Nudging him from the exit, you smirk and motion for him to follow. Rogers could track you as much as he wanted, as long as he was out of your way.  

“A little subdued for you, isn’t it?” You gesture to his color pallet as the two of you slide in the cab. “We look like fuckin’ Christmas.” 

“Woah,” he warns, “I already had my outfit on. You’re the one who picked red.” Sending an eye roll his way, you tell the driver where to go. 

 

After an intense stare-down outside the elevator where you were sure your head would pop right off, Sam was finally designated as your companion for the night. Steve called him your attendant. Bucky called him your dumbass. Sparing his feelings because both of those titles were much too insulting, you asked him to be your wingman.  

“Get it, Wilson? Wingman?” Sam only smirked when you nudged him in the ribs, careful to avoid his previous wound. 

He showed up at your apartment before you did because he was a speed demon and because he wanted to scope it out before your arrival. As you expected, no HYDRA. Just your dusty glass of water and the pills from the nightstand. Even the sheets were in the same position Oliver had left them in. 

 

The cab halts to a stop in front of a busy intersection and Sam pays before hopping out of the right side, holding the door open for you. The two of you walk in silence to the crowded gallery, winking at each other before splitting off to different sides of the room. 

Attendant/dumbass or not, Sam Wilson loves the ladies, and you plan to take full advantage of it. 

\-- 

Steve and Bucky look over the files again on the dining room table, a nervous energy alight between the two of them as their hands finds busy work in rummaging. It doesn’t matter if Bucky grabs a page Steve has just set down, they repeat the motions over and over until Steve’s bouncing knee knocks against the bottom of the table so hard the whole thing lurches upward. 

He groans and scrubs his face with his palms. 

“Damn it.” Steve mutters, hand travelling into his hair in irritation. “Can’t concentrate. Can’t think. Can’t do  _shit.”_  

“Calm down,” Bucky proposes, but Steve’s knee continues to twitch impatiently. Both of their minds have been on one single thing for the last three hours. Steve sits in panicked silence, worry eating at his every cell as he summons every possible scenario that can arise with your departure. Bucky watches him repeatedly check his phone like a nervous priest habitually crossing himself, waiting for any new updates from Sam.  

He’s already voiced that it was stupid to send Sam with you—two asinine children chasing each other on the playground without adult supervision. Your relationship with Wilson bordered on sycophantic; you played him like a goddamn fiddle. The younger, spoiled, sister easily able to bat her lashes at her sibling to get the last bite of dessert. He lets you have it every time. 

It makes Bucky’s head spin to think of you, with so many smokescreens and disguises, every time he thinks he’s got you pinned down you turn a corner in your carnival mirror maze and he’s left staring into an empty space that only reflects his own exasperated expression. Any time he catches a hint of authenticity from you, you wipe it away before he can get a second look. He’s as close to you as he is to Jupiter.  

He’s trying to see it with his naked eye, and its foreign storm is raging on without a care in the world.  

He’s avoided you since that night, unsure of how to proceed safely forward, replaying your suggestion to himself repeatedly. The images of you somersault inside of him, streaks of tenderness when you touched his boot, tears on your shirt, trembling hands on his thighs as you fell into his lap—all honest. You feared hurting others with your powers, Bucky absently closes his vibranium hand at the thought, because he _understands_.  It’s why he took you back to y our room after the meeting, and why he had kept an eye on you the night he woke you up.  But divergently, you were also selfish, mercurial, hedonistic, and  _cold_. All those special little things you do to make it impossible for him to stay nearby. 

He blames himself for falling into your bed, of course. But he blames you a little bit too. 

Yes, the sex was good. It was  _really fucking good_. And Bucky isn’t some starry-eyed little boy who believes in real love and happily-ever-afters like Steve might, so the option to enter your realm of being purely fuck-buddies, as you call it, was completely viable. But the way you used him with such disregard for anyone else made him feel... like an object again. 

And isn’t that what you so desperately want to avoid? Isn’t that what haunts your dreams? 

 

“What the fuck is wrong with her?” Bucky questions the silence before he realizes what he’s done. 

Adjacent from him, Steve shakes his head and props his foot up on the chair to Bucky’s right, knowing fully that their two trains of thought have congregated on the same infuriating subject. The defeated expression that graces his old friend’s features makes Bucky wince. It’s a crushed pinch of his eyebrows and forlorn downward curve of his lips. Steve takes a deep breath and invokes the conversation from the night of the strip club, spilling the story, sadness, and fear. 

Bucky can hear practically hear the hitch of your breath vibrating, see the pink tip of your nose, quiver of your chin. Steve’s put some thought into it in the past few weeks. He’s set aside his crush for you and has really examined what he knows. It makes him sad, because it’s obvious what you’re doing, but you don’t want him, and you don’t want his help. 

So he does what you’ve asked of him. He’s moved on. He’s left you alone. 

“I think she’s secretly terrified, Buck.” Steve mutters. “All her chasing, it’s escapism from the thought of turning into ... something bad. It’s gotten worse since Israel because it’s become a possibility again.” Steve lets out a small puff of air from his nostrils before sending Bucky an apologetic glance.  

“I think she lashes out because she doesn’t know what else to do. She’s just a kid. I mean… what kind of shit were we getting into at that age? In our twenties?” 

Bucky sighs, because Steve’s hit the nail right on the head. ”Just dyin.” 

They share a stale chuckle together until the sound of the fridge door shutting draws their attention.  

“You ever think of getting laid, Rogers?”  

Tony leans against the heavy metal panel, pulling of a crinkling popsicle wrapper. The bright blue rectangle shines in the light before he bites the top off with a soft crunch. His mouth is full of sugary ice chips as he cocks an eyebrow at Steve, hiding the edge of his smirk behind the treat. 

“You know sexual tension isn’t good for anyone, Rogers. Gets you all messed up in your head and next thing you know you start grinding up on a teammate--” Steve’s eyes shoot a glare at him, a sudden thunderclap of embarrassment pounds in his chest. Bucky’s breath suddenly halts to a stop, but the roar in Steve’s ears blocks everything else out. Tony continues on rambling, either unaware or hyperaware. “--then you’re jacking it in the showers so much the drain gets clogged up--” 

“Jesus, Tony!” Steve yells, scrubbing his face in his hands. “Would ya shut up?” 

“--and  _then_  you’re signing autographs and waking up next to someone who looks  _way_ too similar to--” He sobers momentarily, blinking the glazed-over look from his eyes and cocks his head with a smile. “Oops. I got distracted. Anyway, yeah, what was I saying? Rogers. You need to get laid. You’re looking even tenser than usual- weird bulgy muscles... too bulgy.” 

Steve rolls his eyes and his chest flexes on its own, as if summoned by Tony’s chagrin. “How do you know I’m  _not?_ ”  

Tony tilts the remains of his popsicle forward, now a wet stained-green wooden stick at them, “Touche, Rogers. I did hear about Thirteen, by the way; you carry a torch for the Carters real far.” He sucks the wooden stick with a series of hollow squeaks before tapping its edge on his front teeth. “Let me know if you want your own apartment too, I can get you a good deal on the unit across from _Name_.”  

Both boys grimace at your mention, but Tony doesn’t notice. Instead, he trots off out of the kitchen and disappears back down the hall. 

“What the hell...” Bucky moans, pinching his nose bridge. Steve laughs awkwardly next to him and leans back in the chair, kicking his legs out.  

“Eyes and ears everywhere,” Steve mumbles, “That’s Tony for ya.” 

“What do you mean?” Bucky snaps up, paranoid at the suggestion.  

“Sharon...” Steve inadvertently assures him, “It’s only been a few days that I’ve been … y’know.” Upon catching Bucky’s growing smirk, Steve corrects himself, “No, no! Aw c’mon Buck. We’re taking it slow. We haven’t even gone on a real date yet. Just... a coupla phone calls here and there. Ran into her at the VA and since then she’s been giving me some insight about this whole case.” 

Steve chuckles, smiling as his eyes slip shut—a characteristic signal of being lost in a happy memory. Bucky can’t help but mirror his friend’s mouth, elated for him. Sharon was nice, kind, perfect for Steve; she’d walk him through a good relationship. He was letting go of you, which was a good thing for everyone involved, Steve Rogers especially. 

“What about you, pal?” Steve turns the spotlight on Bucky instead, who only shrugs. 

“Nah. I’m... not looking for anything...” With a downward glance of his eyes and a quirk of his mouth too miniscule for Steve to see, he starts cleaning up their mess. 

\-- 

A broad-shouldered man wearing blue smiles at you over the heads of the crowd. You peek at him with your chin tucked, averting your gaze for just a second and pinch your lips, as if you’ve been caught staring. He closes his mouth over the baited fishhook and parts through the sea of bodies.  

“Hi.” He says, breathlessly when stops in front of you, eyebrows raised in surprise as he finally sees more than just what’s above your shoulders. The red reflects in his bright green eyes, turning the color into a glowing hazel. He’s trying to look composed, and the effort is cute. 

Your heart leaps at the opportunity of a chase.   
“Hello.” And so, with a small, uncharacteristically shy smile, the game begins. 

- 

 **10 Years Ago**  

 _She wanders throughout the house in the evening after dinner, fingers touching everything she can reach._ _The copy of “Winnie the Pooh” on the bookshelf, an indentation of a well-used spot on the couch,_ _the_ _guest room’s carpet with the smudge of an aged juice-stain._  

 _“_ _JJ_ _..._ _baby…_ _” her mother calls weakly from the kitchen, phone turning in her hand. She’s been worried sick, debating on calling their_ _pediatrician—someone to ease their minds. Her daughter_ _hasn’t stopped moving since she’s come home,_ _walking in circles around the house, on an_ _inexplicable mission. When her father tries to stop her, she shrieks so loudly_ _as if he’s physically hurting her._  

 _“Is it some sort of… mental break?” He asks, following the trail of her bare feet as she_ _crawls on all fours, looking under the dinner table. Her mother shakes her head._  

 _“It’ll be good for you.” JJ says authoritatively_ _to the table leg_ _before crawling to the refrigerator and standing up. She looks at the drawings her parents have hung up on the front—messy finger paintings and crayon scribbles of fairy-tale princesses with hair and eyes that match her own. Butterfly magnets clip on every corner. The little girl tilts her head back and forth, following the squiggly lines of her artwork, absorbed in the crumpled paper. “_ _It’ll be good for you!_ _” She announces, pointing at the heart-shaped face and pink-lipped u-smile._  

 _Her parents exchange_ _distressed_ _looks._  

 _“_ _Honey, we’re gonna take you to see_ _the doctor_ _, okay? C’mon baby, let’s_ _get_ _in_ _the car.”_  

 _-_   

 **Present Day**  

It’s a little past eleven when you lock the door behind you, motioning your guest to sit wherever his heart desires before walking to the restroom to look yourself over. Sam Wilson shoots you a vibrating text message to let you know he’s just across the street, with a perfect view of your window, so you needed to signal your safety with a lamp on. You draw the curtains but follow his order. 

When you return from the restroom, hair fluffed and brushed through by your fingers, you see your guest perched on the small dining-room table with a book in his hand. His name is Tyler, and he sits hunched over, with a smile as he fingers the spine of an old hard-cover, threads of where the pages are bound slightly frayed and hanging loose from each side. 

“I used to love the T.V. show as a kid,” he smiles fondly, tracing the letters of the front with his finger. He opens it up and looks over the first line, but you reach the table and close it gently, settling yourself on top of his legs. “Oh.” he mutters when both your hands dig into the front of his shirt and your lips cover his.  

“C’mon.” You say, “Bed’s this way.” Tyler’s sandy, soft hair melts into your fingers, eyes fluttering when you stand and take his hand. “Hope you don’t mind; I’ve got to get up early tomorrow morning.” You say. 

“Uh, yeah. Of c—” You don’t give him the chance to finish his statement as you push him onto the bed and crawl on top. 

 

He grabs his coat forty-five minutes later and lingers at the doorway, throwing the layer over his shoulder. You assure him that you had a great time and punch your number in his phone under the false name. His lips are chapped from kissing, eyes red with fatigue, and under his shirt are pink trails of where your fingers dug in too deep. The marks he left on you have already been soaked up by your advanced healing. He gives you a tiny, uncertain kiss before he turns and steps off to hail a cab home. 

Your phone lights up on the nightstand and Sam’s message flashes on the screen. 

 _B_ _oy looks like someone we know._  

With a snort, you reply,  _Very funny. Goodnight, Sam._  

But you know the sleep will be disappointing, even with Tyler’s assistance, there is a lack of the intensity you need to surrender to oblivion and your thoughts still simmer anxiously at the possibility of dreaming.  

Settling down and lying in bed, your arms and legs twitch, as they’ve done for the past month, jerking you awake with gasps any time you’re close to slipping away. Your heart responds stupidly to it, beating faster and harder every single time as if it’s brand new.  

The clock reads one and you turn on your side and pull the cover over your head, body frustrated and exhausted. 

- 

You’re moving again, body quivering in the darkness of the room. Your chest hurts and you can feel the paralysis sinking in. Logically, you know it will pass, but the visceral reaction you have to it doesn’t change with that knowledge.  

The clock reads two and you’ve spent another hour tossing. 

It’s four when your lids finally shut for the last time until morning. 

-

 

The next week follows the same repetitive pattern. You go to the gym down the street in the morning for three hours, go home to shower, go back to the market for groceries, stay in until sunset, then bar hop until you stumble home around eleven with a stranger and flip the lamp on. 

Sam keeps track of you loosely, after seeing that there have been no other immediate threats to you than yourself. You get more drunk each night, and on a Wednesday, you break your heel at the corner of the block and walk barefoot home, glass crunching beneath your feet without a care in the world. The date trailing behind you slips further back the bloodier your feet get and by the time you reach the door, he’s left without saying goodbye.  

You were too intoxicated to notice. 

“She’s derailing, man.” He mutters to Steve that night over the phone. “Someone switch out with me because I can’t sit here and watch this for another week. It’s  _sad_ , man.” 

“I’ll send Natasha.” Steve replies sympathetically. 

  

However, Bucky shows up the next morning, which doesn’t quite surprise Sam, but it does make some gears click around in his head. He narrows his eyes at the mop of long dark hair that waltzes into the living room. “Really?” Sam comments, “Interesting.” 

Bucky only glares at Sam. First off, he  _knew_ Wilson wasn’t cut out for this, and secondly, Romanoff flat-out refused. When Steve came to her with the request, she shook her flaming head and said, “No. I’ll only make it worse, I promise.” Whatever the hell that means. 

Shaking his head, Sam throws the remote at Bucky, “Knock yourself out, Barnes. Her schedule’s on the table. Our signal is the lamp— if that thing goes off, you need to go fast.” The door clicks with his departure. 

Bucky flings his bag onto the couch and takes a book out of his pocket before sitting down on the bed that faces the window. It’s nine, and according to the scrap piece of paper decorated with terrible handwriting, you should be returning from the gym, but he sees the faint shadow of your body move behind the curtains, stumbling before your handprint suddenly presses against the fabric. Bucky shoots up, reflexively feeling for the knife against his hip before the curtain across the street gets yanked open. 

You’re squinting sleepily through the glass, a complete wreck if he’s ever seen one. Your face is swollen from drinking, eyelashes clumped together, smudges of leftover makeup all over your face. You tug the pane open and steel yourself against the frame, taking deep breaths of fresh air. Bucky slowly sits back down on the bed and continues to watch you fumble around a drawer before you find a bottle of pills.  

He stiffens when you take the entire container and pour it into your mouth like candy.  

You don’t leave the apartment for another four hours, and when you do, you walk five doors down and swing into a pub. 

Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to Steve when he calls at night and asks if you’re doing okay. You’re absolutely not, but you’re not  _dead_ , at least. 

“She ate a bottle of painkillers for breakfast.” 

The Captain is silent on the other line for a few minutes before he sighs, “Natasha said this is a tough time for her. Didn’t say why. You know how spies are… shit, I didn’t even know they were close.” 

Walking to the window, Bucky turns the blinds just a tad bit more open to get a better view of the street when he sees you walking in the distance, holding the hand of a much older man. He groans and relays the information back to Steve who sighs in response. “Jesus,” he says, “Thanks for doing this, Buck, I really appreciate it.” 

“Yeah, don’t mention it. I figure better me than you.” 

He runs his hand through his hair and absently moves away from the window half a step as he talks to Steve. When Natasha refused, Steve was ready to come in for Wilson. Bucky took on the task instead,  _knowing_  that it would have killed him to see you like this. He’d been smoking out his feelings for you, replacing them with the new romance with Sharon, and Bucky had seen every giddy smile on that lovesick puppy’s face. He lit up. Bucky couldn’t take it away from him. 

He  _had_  to do this. It was an apology. 

So they decided that he would take Wilson’s place without your knowing. It was simple enough to monitor you quietly across the street with minimal interaction.  

“You seein’ Carter tonight? Bucky asks. Steve laughs on the other end, already bursting with excitement at the mention of her name.  

“Yeah, pal. I think we’re doing something easy, jussa movie.” 

“Oooh, dark theatre, huh?” 

Steve clucks at him, shushing his teasing and Bucky spins on his heels with a chuckle. When he stops to face the window, he freezes at the sight beneath the streetlamp. 

You stand there, staring up into the blinds, a discerning look across your face. 

In his ear, Steve’s words quiet to a faint buzz, drowned out by the sudden hammering of blood in his chest. He’s been made. It’s probably the light behind him, casting his shadow on the blinds. He’s stood too close to the window, and now you know he’s there. A bad feeling creeps up the column of his spine like a spider, pulling on its own thread. The tingle travels, and he tries to brush it away, because maybe you’ll just continue your destructive night on your own. 

You’re surprisingly lucid as you grab the shoulder of the man next to you and turn him around. Your eyes are locked on his unit the entire time. The man tries to protest but the shape of your mouth moves one more time and he’s mechanically marching down the street in the next second.  

But the bad feeling crawls now inside of him, and no amount of brushing with his hands will deter it. Bucky’s more smart than he is naïve, and your destruction will find its place where you choose to place it. 

Bucky swallows as you calmly walk into the building across the street. 

“Buck? You okay?” Steve’s been trying to get his attention for the past minute now. 

“Yeah. Sh--she’s back.” 

“Yeah, we already talked about that?” The confusion in Steve’s voice is clear, “Just make sure the lamp gets turned on when she gets in.” 

As if on cue, dim yellow floods the room. The curtains you closed before leaving are yanked open, blinds hoisted up. Between the slits of his own blinds, Bucky watches you stand, facing his unit. He knows you can’t see him, but he can see you. This is what you want, he thinks. 

The jacket that’s draped over your shoulder is shrugged off and falls behind you. 

“Everything okay?” Steve asks. 

Your hands unbutton your white blouse slowly until you’re standing only in jeans and a lacy strapless bra. You’re not entirely illuminated, but just your shadow is enough to make his breath hitch in his throat.  

“Yeah. She’s um, going to bed. Guy left.” 

You’re motionless. You’re waiting for him. Bucky scans the street, where people are walking by but no one has yet to notice you against the window. His heart thunders in his chest because if it’s this easy for him to see, it must be for everyone else, too.  

“Huh. Well that’s good, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

One hand moves to your pants, slowly unbuttoning the clasp of your jeans. You peel them off like a second skin. He sees matching lacy underwear against your hips. On the street, a group of men have spotted the open window. Bucky can’t even blame them—you’re spilling your blood in the water and the sharks have come to feed. 

“What is that?” Steve asks as yelling reaches the receiver. 

The men have started whooping and cheering, bellowing obscene words at the show you are putting on. One of your hand moves behind your back to the hooks of your bra. Your gaze is still on him. 

“Stupid kids. I’ll call you in the morning.” Bucky hangs up storms out of the room. 

You watch him dart from the building’s door and cross the street, pushing through the group of guys who are debating on who fucks you first. Bucky snarls at them and they scatter like flies. His fists are clenched so tight the vibranium arm is clicking with the strain.  _This_  is what you want, he realizes, baiting others to bait  _him_. 

Your door isn’t locked. 

He crosses the room in four paces and pulls the curtains shut so roughly the beam that holds them up nearly breaks. Your bra falls to the floor and you step over the pile of clothes. 

“I’m not here to _fuck you_! I’m here to make sure you don’t kill yourself, you goddamn lunatic!” 

Bucky backs up, matching each of your advancing steps. “Stop it!” He commands, but you don’t. His back hits the wall and you’re pushed up against him, breasts warm and soft as they graze his jacket. Your mouth is against his collarbone, hands holding onto his arms. 

“Let’s go to bed.” You whisper. 

He’s hopelessly trying to keep still, slowing his breathing deliberately because if his chest puffs out too much, he’ll feel like he’s rubbing against you on purpose. If he moves, he’ll touch you. Bucky shuts his eyes and tries to think of how much you piss him off. But then he remembers the way your tongue lashes against your teeth when you’re holding back a smart comment.  

So he travels to the Siberian winter, falls into the Danube, shuts himself in the cryropod. Fucking  _anything_ to stop the way his body hotly responds to your presence. He even thinks about Steve in a desperate bid. 

Steve, his best friend, who pines for you. 

“I want to fuck you.” You call out to him, nuzzling your nose against his neck. 

 _Steve_. Bucky chants loudly in his mind. Steve, his best friend. Steve, who pines for you. 

“I want to ride you.” 

Bucky’s stomach clenches and he flattens his body as much as he can against the wall. Your knee moves with him, running up his thigh to caress his hardening length. 

 _Steve!_  

“I want to ride your cock until I cum.” You say louder. “Then I want to do it again.” 

You replace your knee with your hand and grip him through his pants. Your mouth works on his neck, kissing, sucking, licking. Bucky shudders and groans, despite himself, putting an arm on your shoulder to wrench you away. 

Your eyes are bloodshot. You’re not even looking at him. 

“You have to stop.” Bucky commands, leveling his voice as much as he can, even though he feels like a goddamn feather could knock him over.  

“Bucky,” you breathe, expression desolate. Your eyes are wet, and the resolve slips from him like water through his fingers. 

“Bucky, I want to sleep. I haven’t slept all month. I haven’t slept since that night. I want to fuck you because I want to go to  _sleep_.” You hand grips his flesh one, leading it into the fabric of your panties, and you tuck his finger inside, moaning at the intrusion. “I want to forget.” 

Steve’s face shimmers from Bucky’s mind. He tries to hold on, but it floats away, chasing the image of Sharon through the dark. You’re hot and tight around his finger, walls already squeezing with need. You finger guides his own to find a spot that makes you whimper against his chest. Bucky shudders out another breath he didn’t know he had been holding as he begins to surrender. 

“Goddamn it…”  

“Yes,” you say, as he adds another digit. Throwing your head back, you squirm against his fingers, “Oh god. Please…” He pumps them in and out, eyes darkening as he latches his mouth onto your neck. He lifts you with his metal arm and takes both of you to bed.  

As you promised, you sit atop him, grinding hungrily Bucky’s afraid you might hurt yourself. But, he thinks, that this is exactly what you want. He’s buried deep inside of you, but you need him deeper. You put his hand around your throat and scratch his chest until he hisses. “Be rough with me.” 

The demand makes him flinch because there’s abandon in your eyes that borders on suicidal. When he tries to move his hand away, your palm connects with his cheek repeatedly until he complies. “Goddamn it!” He shouts after a wince. 

“Are you gonna punish me, Sarge?” You mock, teeth clamping down on your lower lip. 

Bucky flips you on your back in one smooth motion, metal hand on your neck, just like you want. His blood boils, burning the side of his face as it courses through him. You are fucking  _insufferable_. 

He shifts until he’s sitting on his legs, pulling yours so that they hook behind him. He fucks you so deeply tears sting your eyes. His hand squeezes until you’re gasping for breath. “Yes.” You stutter, chasing your orgasm wildly as if it’s the only thing that can save you. Bucky doesn’t stop, even after you come. He savagely ruts into you until the headboard slams so hard against the wall that the whole apartment shakes. 

“Use me.” You mutter feverishly, hands tangling in your own hair before running them up and down his vibranium arm attached to your neck, admiring the black luster and gold trim. Seeing your fingertips dance over the ridges of the metal makes him groan and Bucky picks up his pace, panting with each arduous thrust.  

Bucky clenches your hip hard enough to bruise. And they will—- the thought of it makes you squeeze around him even tighter. In between sputtering gasps you manage to plead. “Fuck me. I’m yours.” Your orgasms run together until it feels like your entire being is in eternal climax, every cell pulsing and exploding all at once, unable and unwilling to rest. Your head is blank, and the darkness that crawls over your vision is black and sweet like molasses.  

He’s close too, thick cock stiffening to the point where he feels like he might tear right through your flesh. Sweat rolls down his nose as his eyes squeeze shut. With a loud grunt, Bucky retreats from your throbbing cunt and spills himself on your stomach, gasping with each creamy rope that shoots from him. 

“Fuck…” he moans, steadying himself on the mattress as you watch through half-lidded eyes. A lazy smile floats on your mouth and you reach up to tuck Bucky’s stray fringe behind his ears. Almost sweetly, he thinks, you pull your body up and run your tongue under his chin, licking away the beads of sweat that have collected and threaten to drop. He’s confused until your hand caresses his cock. 

“One more, Buck.” You request, pressing your open mouth on his. Bucky pulls away but when you smear his cum over your sternum and raise your covered fingers to your eager tongue, his body responds, desirous. His cock is immediately hard again, twitching at the scene before him. You watch his reaction as you repeat the action until there’s nothing left but a thin shiny layer of spit. You open your empty mouth to show him that you’ve taken all of it, and he can’t help but groan at the sight.  

He’s never done this before; he’s never been with a woman like you. The way you writhe beneath him, mewling one second and dominant the next, eager to consume him— all of him. It makes Bucky sting with longing.  

It makes him feel wanted, and it’s enough. 

His thighs straddle your head once he’s positioned himself over your mouth. Flicking out your tongue, you taste the salty precum that’s gathered once more on the tip of his cock before he guides himself in. He’s  _fucking_  hard again, so soon after his orgasm. Bucky slides in and out of your mouth, rubbing the underside of his shaft against your tongue. He’s salty and sweet at the same time, and you grab onto his ass and push him further, deliberately gagging on him. 

A stream of expletives escapes him when your throat opens to grip his cock. Tears fill your eyes at the size of him in your esophagus. He paws for your neck, touching himself through the muscles at work. “Shit...” Bucky murmurs. His cock is twitching and after holding your breath for half a minute, you slowly guide him back out, gasping loudly when he exits with an audible pop. 

Your neck and collar are slick with spit and sweat, and you look so fucking wrecked that Bucky feels pride swell in his chest.  

Bucky Barnes lets go. 

 _Fine,_ he thinks. If this is what you want, and this is how good it makes him feel, he’ll give it to you _any time_.  

Steve has Sharon to be tender and sweet to. Bucky has you to make him cum. And you have him to make you forget. He’ll take your proposal and run with it, if that’s what you want.  

He grabs the back of your head, twisting the hair into a painful knot around his fingers. With his other hand, he grips his cock and shoves himself back in your mouth. “Stick out your tongue.” 

You obey, eyes fluttering when he pushes your head as far as you can go and makes you choke. Your fists thump on his thighs to tap yourself out but Bucky ignores you, swatting then away, pinning one wrist above your head. “Didn’t you say you were mine?” 

His eyes are alight with that delicious peril you’ve been pursuing. He’s dangerous. You’d smile at him, if you could, but he’s so far down your throat all you can do is summon a warble of affirmation. The vibration of sound travels along his pulsating cock and it flexes, bringing tears back to your eyes. 

Bucky takes himself out and you gasp for breath. He moves and rubs his cockhead against your already sore cunt and takes a second to look at your bruised lips and red nose. With his finger, he gently wipes the tear spilling from your eye. The action registers as sentimental, and you ready yourself to jerk from him, but Bucky’s stare keeps you still. 

Glistening with your teardrop, his finger finds it’s way to your mouth, shoving in to make you taste the salty digit. 

“This is what you want, isn’t it?”  

You briefly think that if you were capable of love, you’d probably fall in love with a man like him. But you’re decidedly not, and Bucky thrusts into you with such a force that it scatters the fantasy from your mind. So you nod instead, sucking on his finger and give him a running-mascara and smeared-lipstick Cheshire grin. He doesn’t smile back and it makes your heart fucking  _flutter_. 

Oh, Bucky Barnes, your terrible, terrible partner. 

 

Another half hour passes before the both of you are so sore you collapse next to each other. You’re unconscious first, cheek pressed against the pillow, facing away from him. Bucky sighs as he walks over to the dining table to turn off the light.  

Blurry-eyed, he curiously picks up a discarded book on the surface, illuminated by the small lamp. He turns the worn grey gauze hardcover in his hand thrice before looking at the cracked spine. Sparkling dully, the golden threads of “Winnie the Pooh” shimmer back at him.  

Placing it back down, he tugs on the lamp cord and travels back to your slow-sleeping body in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. The reader can be a really unlikeable lady. She has a lot of issues and we will be investigating them shortly. We'll also be seeing a bit more of Steve in the next chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading, please drop a comment and let me know what you think. I love to hear your thoughts and questions!


	12. Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head and everyone starts to be on the same page. JJ's identity is revealed, and so is your relationship with Bucky.

**Ten Years Ago**

_JJ spends the night in the hospital upon her pediatrician’s request. In the morning a psychiatrist comes by to ask her questions that she doesn’t understand. Her parents sit by the bed, clutching onto each other’s hands as JJ draws a picture of a brick red house lined with shrubs._

_“We lived here!” She dictates. She scribbles the outline of a white car next to the grey driveway. “Mom drove this.” She draws a small truck next to it, “Daddy drove this.”_

_Her parents smile, “Yes honey, but remember we lost the house in the fire… and then we moved for Daddy’s new job.”_

_The oversized gown crinkles when she shakes her head furiously, “No! We didn’t have a fire!”_

_The psychiatrist carefully lifts two fingers and mouths the word “Wait”. JJ continues to mash the crayons colors together as she draws the family in front of the house. Daddy on the left, Mama on the right, and JJ, smaller than she is now, snug in the middle holding their hands. Behind her is a shapeless scribble of colors that run into black. The mess of wire lines reflects in JJ’s eyes as she smiles approvingly at her artwork. “It’ll be good for you.” She nods._

_—_

**Present Day**

You wake Bucky up the next morning with a mug of coffee and fuck him on the dining room chair. He comes in mid-way through your shower and pushes you up against the tile. By the time you’re finished the hot spray has turned ice cold and you’re smirking the entire time you dress.

The two of you continue your affair into the following weeks and you’re almost back to yourself again, feeling the loading bar reach capacity. During the day you train and workout, make your own meals, go dancing in the evening, even drink reasonably. Bucky is always in the back of your mind, and like a well-trained Pavlovian dog, your body starts humming for him around midnight. It brings some fear to the forefront of your thoughts as you feel yourself latching on more and more, but every night he shows up right on time and turns the lamp off and your foresight along with it.

If you were to share your analogy with him, you might find that he feels the same way.

 

You also gradually transition back to the grind at the compound. Although the buyer has yet to resurface, sometimes you look over the files again with Steve just to be sure. Neither of you find anything that’s not already been talked about, but it gives both of you an excuse to talk about _something_.

Steve shows you the mesh in the lab, and Tony and Bruce talk to you about their theories, bouncing questions off each other, but you only bristle upon seeing the damn thing. It makes you both sad and angry, and you shake all over and grind your teeth so hard your brain hurts. They leave the questions for themselves after that.

Over the weeks, Steve notices you’re less combative and incendiary with him, and there are moments where you’re even being nice, like offering him a seat on the couch when you’re watching a movie or letting him have the last piece of bacon. You’ve even gone on a run with him and, other than Bucky, no one’s ever kept up that well. You generally stop at just over ten miles, whereas he goes on for another eight, but the companionship is pleasant, and your snarky comments along the way make his sides hurt more than the cardio. He thinks you could probably keep going, and challenges you to just that.

On a Thursday morning, the both of you sprint around the facility’s campus like racehorses. When the three-hour mark hits, you shove Steve into the pool in frustration. When he resurfaces, he drags you in by the ankle and the two of you share a moment of contentment together after the laughing subsides.

 

You and Bucky tread the waters carefully at the compound, knowing F.R.I.D.A.Y. monitors everything and everyone. When you travel to Bucky’s room at night or him to you, it’s through secret paths or roundabout walks, and when you are at your apartment, he never leaves unless it’s in conjunction with an errand. You meet under cover of darkness and let him lead the dance.

Sometimes it’s fast and frenetic, hands around each other’s throats, wrestling for dominance, all teeth and claws. Sometimes it’s quiet and hushed, fast dalliances before one of you rushes back to the real world. Once, it’s almost tender, like the scent of overripe fruit drifting along a breeze.

It was during a brief moment of intimacy after you kissed the scarred ridges of his shoulder, half of your lips pressed to his burning skin and the other half on the cool metal. In your mind, he had never been less than who he was, so it didn’t occur to you that Bucky’s arm was a sensitive subject for _him_.

“What are you doing?” He had asked as your mouth found every patch of raised skin, linking your fingers through his vibranium one. Your curved spine straightened as you sat up, riding harder when you felt him pulse. Bucky looked irritated and you let go of his hand, smirk forming on your lips.

“What, you’ll let me fuck the arm but not hold the arm?”

He brushed his flesh hand over where you’d touched him with a scowl, as if to scrub you away. But his body couldn’t deny the way his mouth could. You returned your lips to his shoulder, nipping and licking. He grunted and feebly tried to hold you off, even as his dick throbbed inside.

“I love this.” You muttered against the cool plates, “Powerful. Incredible.” You placed it against your chest, pulling his hand up to massage your breasts before pressing the cold fingers in your mouth, clutching onto his forearm like a support beam. Leaning back, you rode him gently, watching his expression as he let you guide him to climax.

He came with a gasp as he emptied himself across your stomach, heavy streams dribbling down to his own waist. Bucky’s mouth hung open as he tried to catch his breath, watching you with narrowed eyes.

“Buck, your dick can’t lie to m—“

Bucky crashed his trembling lips onto your smirking ones, holding the back of your head with both his hands as his tongue almost lovingly licked your mouth. He’s never done this before. Your kisses were always brief, introductions to future activities, but never deep and passionate. The both of you pulled away awkwardly before cleaning up in silence.

 

After that, as if to remedy the incident, you bite him on his right bicep the following morning during training until he screams.

“Mother _fuck_ er!”

Natasha stops kicking at Steve and both turn to watch you swivel from your thighs off Bucky’s shoulders. He rolls up his sleeve to reveal the perfect imprint of your bite, wet and red, jagged edges of all 32 teeth quickly blackening.

Bucky shoots you a death glare, “I’m gonna _kill_ you.”

It’s not the first time you’ve done this and he knows it won’t be the last, but the shape of your maw reflects almost perfectly where the scarred seam of his cybernetic arm is and he _knows_ you’re purposefully trying to piss him off.

Steve looks mildly amused as Bucky rears back and catches your neck in his hands, flinging you against the wall. You’re delighted as you bounce off the pads with a giggle. Rogers dodges another kick from Natasha and continues to watch the two of you from the corner of his eye, glad to see that things have gone back to how they used to be. Your cheery attitude is back, full force, and the scars that used to haunt all three of you have almost completely disappeared like a bad dream.

He chuckles at the insults because it seems almost normal again. He’s expressed his gratitude to Bucky for bringing you back into the fold after the pool incident as they sat in the living area with beers. You’d gone off again for the night, which they both expect and accept. Whatever Bucky did, Steve had praised him generously for it because now when you come back in the morning, you strut in with a smile rather than a limp.

He thanks Bucky because he feels genuinely closer to you now than he’s ever been—more resembling a friend than a conquest. Whatever that entails, he appreciates it.

 

Natasha snaps her fingers to get his attention and raises her arms, “C’mon Rogers, we all have places to be tonight.  You don’t want to be late for your date, do you?”

\--

**Ten Years Ago**

_Butterscotch pudding and jammy toast for dinner was a fine consolation for spending the night in a cold room wearing a crinkly speckled gown. JJ’s mother was going to stay the night with her, but she’d left for a minute to get some items from home. The young girl was tired and sleepy, and the hospital room only had old movies that were too boring to watch all night._

_Clicking through the channels, she was surprised to see the theme song of a show she recognized. Humming along, JJ bounced her foot along as the animals raced around onscreen, avoiding a storm._

_Piglet peeked into Pooh Bear’s house._

_Suddenly her head hurt._

_She had seen this episode before, the one where Pooh gets stuck in the honey jar and the animals have to work together to get him out. She remembers the early Saturday morning that she stirred awake because cups were breaking in the kitchen. Mom and Dad were arguing again and looking scared when they came into her room. They wanted to leave, she remembers. They wanted to run away. JJ scratches her head because she remembers that she felt angry, but she just can’t figure out why._

_To the right of her legs are the drawings she’s done for Dr. Mindy, and on top of the pile is the magic princess she loves drawing the most. The doctor had complimented JJ’s talent and said that she looked really pretty as a fairy and JJ thanked her. But as she touches the lines of the purple wings, she knows that this isn’t a picture of herself at all._

_Her hospital room door opens. As she looks up, she gazes into a pair of eyes the exact same color as her own. “You’re here!” She yells and begins to cry._

_She knows this picture. She knows the princess has come back to her._

_—_

**Present Day**

Steve buckles his belt and slips on his shoes, looking over himself in the mirror for the last time. It’s five-thirty, and the reservation he’s made is in a couple of hours, which should give him plenty of time to pick Sharon up.

Down the hall, he also hears Natasha and Bruce leaving. The Widow’s high heels are cracking away in the distance. Tony and Pepper and spending time at her place tonight, and Sam has gone out to check in on a buddy of his from the VA. You are making dinner in the kitchen. Bucky is doing laundry.

Steve stops by the dining room before he goes, watching you with interest as you heap a pile of mashed potatoes and two pork chops onto a plate before happily topping it off with a fresh spring of rosemary. He blinks at the lit candles on the table as you plop down in a chair and tuck into the meal for yourself.

“Heya Steve. Heading out?” You ask, eyes illuminated by the glow of the flame. “Fourth date, I hear?”

He grins. “Uh, yeah… it’s uh…” Steve fumbles around for something to say, “It’s.. nice.” He feels a little bit stupid for being unable to find a better word, but it’s not for a lack of trying. There’s all sorts of things he could say about Sharon, but for whatever reason, he feels _guilty_ for talking about her in this moment. Behind the flame, your eyes flicker over him. It makes him swallow and push his hands in his pocket because you’re roaming over his outfit with a smirk.

“Aw, cute.” You say. There’s condescension in your tone and Steve reminds himself not to let you get to him. He checks his phone and his heart skips a beat when Sharon’s message stares at him promisingly. He’s smiling before he realizes it, chest swelling as he exhales. It’s the fourth date. The thought dawns on him that tonight might be a big one.

He kissed her at the end of the first date— the simple movie with hand-holding and her curly blonde locks nestled comfortably on his shoulder. They shared a bucket of popcorn and a large Coke, and kissed at the credits like teenagers. The drive back to her apartment and longing gazes at her door also culminated in another kiss, one that was a bit longer and deeper. But he pulled away after their tongues touched and wished her goodnight before anything could persist.

The second date was full of conversation, and Sharon waited for him to lead; only when he touched her did she reciprocate. It was a predictable and simple thing, and he could straightforwardly navigate all the easy left turns of the track.

The third one had been one tension-filled and heavy. A bottle of wine and a romantic flick at her apartment. They shared just one. She buzzed loose her inhibitions and crawled into his lap. But Steve was stone-sober and couldn’t bring himself to take advantage of her in that state. It also reminded him too much of another memory- a wine bottle, a woman, and suddenly the black-and-white of his feelings muddled into gray and the track looped in confusing circles.

“Have fun, Steve.” You wish him as you grab the plate and push in the heavy chair with your hip. You stop in front of him and smile, pointing to his cheek. Steve snaps from his reverie and brushes an eyelash away before watching you retreat down the hall. “Make a wish, Captain.”

For a second, he thinks you look a little bit sad, but he can’t imagine why. Steve feels his shoulder shrug by themselves as he checks the time on his phone again. Still early. Maybe he’ll watch some news to pass the time.

-

Bucky lands on his mattress and bounces a little with the force of your push. You’d snatched him from the laundry room five minutes ago and nearly dragged him into his quarters without much of an explanation. The half eaten dinner in your left hand was equally perplexing.

The plate now rests on his dresser as you hurriedly shrug out of your own clothes and pull a discarded shirt of his over your head. The way the thin fabric falls over your chest makes his tummy clench. It outlines the swell of your breasts and Bucky licks his lips at the shape of your nipple before the shirt drops and loosely hangs over your abdomen.

You coyly watch him as he runs his hand up your hip and palms your tits. Your hands fist the hem of the shirt and you pull it between your legs, stretching it over his knuckles. It’s a game, and even though your shyness is just a role you’re auditioning for, it works. You stick the landing with your big doe-eyes and soft pink lips, and Bucky’s cock twitches in his sweats. 10 out of 10.

The sneaking correlation of why you’re suddenly eager to do _this_ makes its way into his thoughts. Regardless, Bucky thinks, he can play this game with you. Pretending to be something more tender and saccharine.

 

In the past couple of weeks there have been a lot of games and experiments, and the thrill of keeping a secret pushes the intensity that much more. He can’t deny that it excites him when he opens the door from a shower and you’re sitting on the edge of the bed thumbing through a book like you belong there.

Sometimes you’re in your pajamas and he secretly prefers that more than when you’re already naked or dolled up in lingerie and red lipstick. He tries to return the favor, showing up in your room in the middle of the night and waking you up with his face between your thighs. Every time you purr awake it fills him with pride and hunger. On a few occasions, he’s shown up at the Manhattan apartment after you’ve hooked up with someone and fucks you right there against the back of door no more than three seconds after it slides shut.

Bucky loves the way you whimper his name as he runs the memory of someone else out of your mind. On those occasions, the game is about submission, and the only time he’ll see that side of you is behind closed doors. He took full advantage of it one night as his hand nearly broke the lock.

 

He remembers all the filthy things he growled into your ear and the way you succumbed so easily to his touch. Tonight, he thinks, he’ll do it again because there’s a very specific reason you yanked him out of the laundry room, even if you won’t admit it.

Now that he knows you and the tell-tale giveaways of your body, you’re easier to read than you think.

Bucky pulls your into his lap and kisses your neck, starting from your jaw to your collarbone. He nips and bites over the fabric of his shirt and clamps down outside a nipple until the grey turns black with spit. You relax in his arms and he pulls the edge up slowly, mouth ghosting over each inch that becomes exposed to the cool air.

The sight of him, fully dressed, as opposed to your exposed flesh makes you hum a low tone of approval. But Bucky leaves his shirt on you— lets it hang back over your torso, softly presses his fingers into your hair and tugs your head back.

“Who do you belong to?” He murmurs quietly. You respond with a scoff and he lets it go. Bucky smirks against your neck as he traces the soft ridges of your throat with his tongue. He knows when he asks you again in about ten minutes you’ll be promising him your entire life.

Of all the games you play with each other, this is the most dangerous one. The softness and gentle touches are siren songs to a world neither of you know or understand, but the sweet blurring line rolls through your bodies like a drug and, caught in the current, the two of you are swept further out to sea.

-

 

Steve blinks at the breaking news across the flatscreen as the image of a young girl is oriented against a blue backdrop. The newscasters express their condolences and urge the public to reach out for information about a missing teenager, last seen leaving school yesterday afternoon. Her picture is nothing alarming, and neither is the story, but he can’t shake the odd tug in his brain as he looks at her features one last time before the story breaks to weather.

The time is now six-fifteen and Steve checks his phone. Sharon has sent him a picture of her dress and he lifts an eyebrow at the vague outline of a lacy bra underneath the shine of the material. A sudden wave of panic crashes over him and he shoots up from the couch.

Steve darts from the living room and down the hall. Bucky would know what to do.

“Buck! Oh God! Do you have any condoms?”

As the door slams open, Steve stills while his brain tries to catch up with what it’s seeing. Time is moving, he knows, but the second hand is hammering out the slowest of ticks. He checks his surroundings.

It _looks_ like Bucky’s room. It smells like Bucky’s room.

But _you_ are leaning against the bookcase with a fork dangling from your left hand as you glare at your phone. You don’t even flinch with the slamming of the doorknob against the wall or acknowledge him as he calls your name.

“What are you doing in here?” Steve asks, worriedly, feeling his previous panic being replaced with something more dreadful.

 _Tick_. The clock thumps.

The shower’s running, he notices. _Tick._ The bathroom door is cracked open and a sliver of orange light casts a line on the floor. _Tick._ The shirt you’re wearing is slightly too large for you. _Tick._ A small crumpled piece of fabric that’s too small for Bucky is two inches away from Steve’s foot. _Tick_. You remain immobile against the bookcase.

He swallows thickly as the water stops and Bucky steps into the room with a towel around his waist.

Emotions rise and fall in the boys’ chest as they stare at each other. Steve feels something collapse and die in his stomach and he presses together the jigsaw puzzle and sees the whole picture. He needs an explanation, his body reflexively clenches as his fists ball up into knots at his sides. “Bucky?” He calls, voice low, rumbling like an earthquake arriving.

He’s shed the surprised boy from his expression and puts on the Captain’s face.

Bucky stammers as his hand grips the towel around his waist tighter to his body. He steps forward until he’s only a few feet from Steve. It may be a bad decision, since Bucky knows Steve might very well deck him on the spot.. “Pal—- it’s—“

“It is _exactly_ what it looks like, Buck. How long?” He hisses.

 

The fork in your hand clatters on your empty plate on the shelf as you slide your phone into your pocket. Steve turns to accost you about your part in this but the look on your face shuts him up completely. Your eyes are searching for something beyond this room, chest rising and falling in sharp, short breaths. You look _afraid_.

“Get of my way.” You whisper, and both of them immediately swivel until their backs are flat against the wall. They grunt as they’re glued to the position until you’ve stomped out the doorway, calling for F.R.I.D.A.Y.

“Get me Romanoff! Now!”

-

When Natasha finally makes it to the compound, you’ve already punched four holes into the wall and snapped all the pens in Tony’s conference room where you pace impatiently. Bucky and Steve have hovered as much as they can, both troubled at your state, asking questions that fall upon your deaf ears. Natasha rushes past them in a blur of red hair and frightened green eyes. The second she steps foot into the room, you send them out and they literally cannot fight you. The door slams shut and crashing follows. You’re shrieking incomprehensible syllables.

Two Super Soldiers helplessly fight their bodies that continue to step away from the ruckus.

-

**Ten Years Ago**

_“Hey Josie...”_

_A soft hand folds over a smaller one on the bed and JJ bursts into tears. “You’re back!” She exclaims, “I knew you’d be back. Please don’t go away anymore. Please don’t go!”_

_Behind the blurry stained glass of her eyes, JJ looks into a face just like her own— hair, eyes, cupid’s bow set in a slightly larger and harder frame. They share their mother’s eyelashes and their father’s cheekbones. Even though no one can remember her older sister, JJ has been recovering her fossils bit by bit, scribing her likeness on paper, finding her old places around the house._

_“_Name_.” JJ whispers. “Everyone forgot. Did you do it?”_

_Your already shattered heart crumbles so finely it’s turning into sand being blown away by your sister’s shallow breaths. You squeeze her little hand and feel your chest tighten like a constrictor as you look at her soft pink face, button nose shiny red, cheeks glowing with exertion, missing canine giving her a sneaky edge._

_You want to deny the truth because you hate the hurt you’ve brought to her. The picture of innocence, your little sister. Despite all of your flaws, selfishness, mistakes, she’s always loved you more than anyone ever has. She looks up to you. And you disappoint her every time._

_You were eight when your mother had JJ. You despised her. You despised them all. The world was at your command— anything you wanted from anybody, you could have. But JJ, no more than a lump of wrinkly red skin, never stopped crying when you commanded. She never opened her eyes until she was ready. She was boring. She was noisy. She slept all the time. She took up all the love your parents never showed you._

_You hated her. The only thing in the world who had never been obedient to your will was a soft, sickly, stinky baby named Josephine Jade._

_But she grew, and the bigger she got, suddenly the less you hated her. You imagined that she was eating it away with every bottle of formula and every pot of mashed carrots and peas. You wanted to hate her, but you just couldn’t. She had pudgy fingers and a gummy mouth that clamped down stupidly on your hair. Even though your parents wouldn’t let you hold her, you’d go in the nursery anyway just to put your finger in her palm and marvel at the way she’d clench at it and giggle._

_The more she changed, the more you changed._

_And then, when it occurred to you that she was old enough to understand and follow your commands just like everyone else you’ve ever met—you had no desire to exert your will on her. Whatever broken logic your twelve-year-old brain assembled was the logic that you decided to follow: no powers on Josephine Jade._

_Except for those two times._

_It’s the second time she’s remembered you. This time it took five months. It hurts both of you so much. Your little sister. Your pint-sized shadow. Little monkey. Silly-billy sweetheart. You smile at her as she props herself forward and smiles at you._

_She follows the tilt of your head when you lean to the left then right. It was a game you played together sometimes, a silent Simon Says because JJ always complained that it wasn’t fair that you had fairy magic. She had decided, at four, that if you blinked, it meant you were trying to trick her, so she would only follow and win if you didn’t blink._

_Silly rules dictated by a silly child. But you were only twelve then, and happily followed along._

_You blink a tear from your eye._

_“I win.” JJ giggles. “Don’t be sad that I won, _Name_.”_

_You lean over and hug her, blowing breaths into her neck and ear, ruffling her tangled hair, and she shrieks with laughter. You squeeze her tightly because when you let go you’ll just have to do this again. Every time is the last time with JJ, even if she’s proven you wrong twice already._

_You just want this moment to last a little while longer._

_The door swings open and your mother steps in with a bag tucked under one arm and a teddy bear under the other. “JJ! I couldn’t find Pooh. Can Theo be your snuggle buddy toni—“_

_Her eyes widen at your figure on the guest chair meant for her. She steps back slightly as she searches your face for a familiar feature. You see nothing arise in her eyes and even though that’s what you want and expect, it blows another gust over the sand in your chest._

_“Who are you and what are you doing in my daughters room? Nurse? Nurse!!”_

_JJ starts screaming again, “No! Mom! No! It’s her! It’s _Name_!” Her high-pitched wall bleeds into the increasingly panicked pitch of your mother’s. They’re sirens together, volume fighting each other for authority._

_You close your eyes and recite the magic spell._

_“It’s okay. It’ll be good for you.”_

_They both stop._

_—_

 

Even though it’s a fearful truth that they continue to face —the depth and power of your ability, Bucky can’t help but grow angry that you are purposefully choosing to use it. After Israel, after the nightmares, bitterly, he thinks, after being with _him._

Steve paces irritably as he clicks out an apology to Sharon on his phone. It shocks him that he’s so eagerly discarded what may have been an exceptionally memorable night, but he blames it on duty. And Captain America was faithful to duty first.

They’ve been banned from the conference room and can only wait, tuning their ears toward the hall to catch anything of importance. Wordlessly, the two have filed away their personal troubles for another time, even if Bucky is giving Steve plenty of room as he leans against the opposite wall. Steve has heard nothing but crashes and for a split second, the roar of Hulk— which welds both super soldiers in their spots, fear coursing through their blood at once. But it halts and half a minute later, Banner marches dizzily to join them in the banished space.

Bruce shakes his head. “I- I got so _scared_.” Steve puts a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. Hulk always does this to him, he wants to comfort him, but then Banner admits, “O-of her— of _Name_. Sh- she… she sent him away… I- I didn’t know…” Bruce exhales a shuddering breath as he plummets into a seat. “I didn’t know that could happen.”

Steve pulls his hand away and frowns. _What the hell is going on?_

Footsteps click down the hallway and all three pairs of eyes snap up to see Natasha trembling, one hand against the wall. Her eyes are rimmed with red, genuinely, and Bruce leaps up to hold her but she pushes him away. She returns to her confident poise the longer she walks towards them, and hooks her finger towards Bucky and Steve. They follow her back to the conference room where you sit, T.V. turned on and paused on the breaking news report Steve watched just half an hour ago.

The room is completely ripped apart, and even the corner of the screen has cracked, static webbing from the smudge, blurring the picture. Chairs are thrown against the wall, parts of some embedded in the wall itself. The table is splintered in the middle. If Steve wasn’t so fucking terrified, he might have been stupid enough to comment on how the damage bill was going to make Tony _flip._

Instead, he looks at you sitting in Bucky’s shirt on a leather chair, remote gripped in your hand as you turn to them. The air around you is dead, and you’re poised like a piranha in still water, waiting for blood. The frenzy has only begun, Steve fears as he looks from your face to the young girl on the news.

He sees it now.

Same rich, shiny hair and glowing eyes. Prominent cheekbones. Swooping curved upper lip like a painter’s mark. Although your features are just a tad sharper and more refined with your age, and perhaps it’s Steve’s ghostly feelings for you that summons him to suddenly pause on your beauty in all its rage— but he compares you to the young girl on the screen and lands with a crushing devastation that this girl—

“This is Josephine.” You speak emotionlessly, tone betraying the tell-tale puffy skin around your eyes and swollen, nose and mouth. “She is seventeen. She is missing. She is my sister.”

“This is not the first time.” You continue. “The _first_ time was five years ago, just a stupid fucking coincidence— right, Nat?”

Natasha lowers her eyes and swallows at the sound of her nickname rolling on your tongue like bile, “Yes. Of course it was.” Her voice quivers.

Your lips pulls back and reveal your teeth at her- a warning pretending to be a grin. You fold your hands into your lap and crack your neck, bare feet tapping to the noiseless rhythm of a distant thundering storm.

“If you’re lying, _Natalia_ , I will burn the Avengers to the ground. And they will have you to blame.”

Steve steps forward at the threat, steeling his voice to keep you at bay. “_Name_.”

You raise your hand and his body stops moving. Steve’s heart slams against his ribcage as his mind begins battle with the compulsion he didn’t know you were capable of. Your powers had always relied on the word. This raises possibilities that only heightens the fear he thought had peaked five minutes ago.

Yet, no one seems to notice what you’ve done. Not even you.

Steve doesn’t know who’s sitting in front of him anymore. You’ve turned as dark as a black hole, calmly hovering in the world with all the power of a million disasters in your genes. There was never a mention of a family in your files. At this point, he should know better than to even rely on those documents when it comes to you- but even in the nearly three years you’ve been with the team, you’ve disclosed nothing to them. Nothing.

Fucking nothing.

He’s seeing it crash down around all of you now as your fingers grip so tightly your knuckles turn bone-white.

You open your mouth, eyes a thousand miles away. You begin telling them about Amsterdam, about Nick Fury, SHIELD, and Natasha. You tell them about Josephine.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo whe! Now I'm staring at all of my loose ends and desperately tying them into what MAY end up being a really shitty braid. Thank you so much for reading! This isn't even *the* big problem. It's a big problem, though, don't get me wrong. :)
> 
> Thank you for everyone who's left comments. It's super helpful for me to read what you think and how you are interpreting the work. It gives me a lot of insight! xx


	13. Truth and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed-- yours and Natasha's.

**Amsterdam**

_You lean against the railing of the upper floor, gazing down at the dark sea of bodies lit up by multicolored lights beneath. Techno-pop bumps through the speakers at the club— foreign Dutch words pulsing loudly. A man stops by to flirt, but you wave him off, eyes peeled for a very specific type of person as you pretend to sip a glass of vodka._

_You’re twenty-two, already too deep and blinded in this mission. But you don’t see another way to live now that you’ve embraced having nothing but ghosts._

_Tonight you’re hunting for one, to return her to the land of the living._

_She’s only twelve, and after the third time she remembered you, you moved away from your childhood city and cut her out of your heart._

_Then you started over and began a new chapter of honest good work. Found roommates on craigslist, got a job at a pretty nice restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen, lived breezily, numbing your days with work and your nights with strangers. Life was stupid and meaningless and you were going to die eventually, you’d already resigned yourself to that._

_Until Channel Seven News flashed that an American girl had gone missing in Amsterdam while on vacation with her parents. It started as a simple summer tour through all the highlights of Europe, but on their third stop while sight-seeing, the couple lost track of their daughter. There was no ransom, no clue, nothing at all._

_Your mother’s face wailed as your father stood stiff beside her, bottom lip trembling a staccato of unshed tears. The ghosts were re-entering your life, their shadows flickering in agony._

_The next flight to Amsterdam was taken and with your resources, mostly an English-to-Dutch pocketbook and your powers. With the broken phrases you learned, after a few days and many commands at the local police stations, you tracked JJ’s kidnappers to this club._

_You see a man part the crowd effortlessly, making his way to the back door. He’s underdressed, in simple jeans and a wrinkled button up— fucking flip flops on his feet— but the curvy woman on his arm is glitzed out like a starlet— tell tale sign of money and power. You know immediately that he’s the one you want._

_The back door leads down a maze of hallways that dull the sound of music. Stair steps head into a basement that feels impossibly large, echos haunting your careful steps. Beneath this club was a warehouse, sectioned off by curtains and rusted metal sheets. Whimpering breaths rise from each of them. There are voices in the distant corner. Footsteps here and there._

_You’ve seen Taken with Liam Whats-His-Face. You know what this shit is._

_The girls here are anywhere from 10 to 25 and likely so numb with drugs they couldn’t tell you their own names. In the labyrinth of curtained off rooms, your heart pounds and your brain screams at you that your own sister could be here. Drugged. Raped. Brutalized._

_Dead._

_You have nothing but the words in your mouth, but that’s plenty. So, despite the horror, you peek through as many curtains as you can on your way towards the laughter and conversation in the back. One, asleep. Two, fluttering eyelids. Three, vomit stained front. None Josephine._

_Four. A man, bottoms off, on top of a girl young enough to be your sister. You kick him off with your boot and command him to leave in Dutch. Your voice trembles and your eyes well up with tears but you move on, unaware that the conversation in the back has quieted._

_Before your hand brushes against the fifth curtain, there’s a vice grip against the collar of your shirt and you’re yanked by the neck backwards. You ass hits the floor with a thud and you cough to regain your breath. Three men circle you, two of them wielding guns, the one in the middle taps his foot impatiently— goddamn flip flops. The woman behind him gets shoved further back by his blinged-out fingers, each one displaying thick gold and jeweled rings._

_“Whoareyou?” He asks in overrun English. Fuckin’ perfect. That’s good enough._

_“Tell them to drop their guns.” You command. He does it, and both him and his henchmen grunt and groan as soon as “Laat je wapens vallen” leaves his mouth. The woman gasps and stumbles onto the floor._

_“Stand still.” You command again, adding, “Niet bewegen!” to be safe. You’ve learned all these years that you must be extremely literal with your commands, because even if they’ve dropped their guns, they can still kill you with their hands. Thank a mugging incident in Queens for that particular knowledge._

_You shove a picture of JJ in the guy’s face and snarl, “Where?” He tilts his head away and spits onto your shoe. What a motherfucker. With a smile, you pull the dictionary out of your back pocket until you find the right phrase._

_“Lik het op.”_

_The two bodyguards start to cry out as their boss shakes violently with every inch his body that brings itself closer to the ground. You stand and watch as he tilts his head down and obey like a prized show dog. Three pairs of eyes are trained on you with fright. When he stands back up, his eyes match theirs as well. You snort deeply from your lungs and hock a wad of spit onto your other shoe._

_Then, you try again, pointing to JJ’s picture first before pointing to the toe of your boot._

_“You are not in charge, buddy. **I’m** the motherfucker. So be a good boy and tell me where my sister is before I make one of your friends pull your guts out of your ass and strangle you with them.” You have no intention of making him understand everything you’ve said because you’re sure that the tone and realization that you’re beyond human has put the fear of fuckin’ God in everyone here already. He begins to nod frantically as he twists his head around and points you towards the back of the room. _

_You rush there quickly where you reach a large tattered curtain. Like the others, it closes off a portion of the room to privacy, except there’s a sound of heavy metal chains clanking. When you rip the curtain down, the snarl and bark of an oversized mastiff as it leaps towards you makes you fall backwards once more._

_The men laugh at your naiveté as you brush yourself off._

_The dog, still barking and foaming at the mouth, is chained to a metal rod sticking up from the ground. It guards a large cage where two young girls are crouched together. Neither of them are JJ and before you can head back to make good on your promise to this guy, the back door opens and three more men come rushing in, weapons drawn._

_They open fire and you barely spin out of the way as a bullet grazes your left cheek. “Stop!” You scream, and one of them does, but the other two, who can’t understand English, continue to unload bullet after bullet._

_You pick yourself up and duck behind curtains and run in zig zags as you scan your brain for the right commands. The noisy ricocheting echoes of the basement drowns out any word you can summon until a loud male voice does it for you. The room quiets, and the voice says it again, shakingly, in Dutch._

_You’re crouched down low, behind a dilapidated end-table full of condoms when a distinctly feminine voice calls your full name._

_“Come out, please. I need to talk to you.”_

_Peeking out from the curtain, you see the glitzy arm-candy woman from earlier, except she’s holding a gun to the flip-flops fucker’s head and has her other arm around his neck in a chokehold. Your eyes bulge from your head as you watch a smirk grow on her lips. She whispers in his ears and he yells a command. The men behind drop their guns and kick them away._

_“I need you to come with me. Understand?”_

_You nod. But of course you don’t understand shit. Two minutes ago, and for the last half-hour, this woman had been the least of your concerns. So much so that you hardly even know what she looks like other than sparkly. She seems to know what you’re thinking as she walks backward, barrel of the gun still fixed on the guy’s temple. You trail along with her, eyes looking behind you every now and again to make sure the rest of the men are still where they need to be._

_Her hostage barks a command when one of his henchmen reach for a pistol. The woman whips the handle of the gun against his nose and it cracks open like a piñata full of blood. He screams and his bodyguard doesn’t try it again. You step over the droplets of blood and find yourself mighty impressed with her._

_She only grins in reply, blowing a tight coil of red hair that falls down into her eyes._

\--

Natasha crosses her arms underneath her chest as you watch her coolly. She’s definitely changed since you’ve met her, hair gone through quite a few styles before she settled on this current look. Back then, you remember calling it her snakes, and her Medusa. It was wild and floppy, curls twisted too tightly and sprayed too stiffly.

Bruce watches the two of you staring at each other intently, swallowing when Natasha breaks eye contact. She looks truly afraid, and nobody in this entire room has seen that except for him, right before he changes into Hulk.

Bucky puts his hands on his hips, “So what?” He asks, “It was SHIELD, right? They sent her for you?”

You nod, and continue.

-

_Natasha had been tracking your movements for years. SHIELD put her on your case and they would often check in from time to time just to make sure you weren’t and wouldn’t become some sort of national threat. She had explained that there was some algorithm that revealed you to them—Project Insight, apparently. She didn’t have clearance for it, only knowing what her superiors told her._

_From her notes on you, you are “self-destructive, manic, a self-flagellating glutton for punishment because you won’t forgive yourself for things out of your control.” You screech with laughter when she rattles off her diagnosis._

_“Fuck you, lady.” You hiss, “You do not know me.”_

_She crosses her arms and draws the tattered and stained curtains shut, slipping off her sky-high heels. She led you here, after knocking out the hostage and losing the rest of them in the club’s sweaty crowd. She was a goddamn professional that was for sure, showing up your clumsy movements with ease as she turned sharp corners and effortlessly scaled over fences._

_Eventually, her path had become so dizzying that you weren’t even sure what city you were in by the time she stopped at the hostel she was staying at. None of the buildings looked even remotely familiar anymore._

_“You don’t have to like me.” She says, pulling a pair of boots from under the bed and throwing them next to the door by your own discarded shoes. “But you will be working with me. Don’t you want your sister back?”_

_You roll your eyes, “Yes. Of course.”_

_“Then make me a deal.” Natasha pulls out a metal briefcase from under the bed again and rolls the correct code over the lock. She takes out the pistols entombed in the case, watching you with another sly smirk as your eyes briefly widen, and reveals a hidden compartment where a manila folder sits with papers inside._

_She slides it across the bed and you carefully lift it up. A round logo of what looks to be some kind of bird is on the front. Red bold letters are stamped on the top-- CLASSIFIED. Your name is printed underneath and your mouth twists itself into a sneer when it becomes glaringly obvious that she is here to fucking recruit you._

_“Do you think after this, you can go back to your pretend life, working a dead end job… with your abilities? Have you thought beyond that? I know what you’re capable of…” She whispers, then, she looks at the cut on your cheek. “And what you’re not capable of. Make me a deal, _Name_.” Natasha says, more firmly._

_“You can be something more than this version of yourself that you’re running from.” Your eyes snap up at her, but she ignores the heated look, “I’ve been where you are.” She says with slow deliberation, as if she’s not sure she should share this, “I know your fear.”_

_In a flash, it’s gone._

_“There are SHIELD agents stationed all around the city. As soon as you sign this document and become one of us, we’ll get your sister out. They radio’ed this morning with her location. They already have her in their sighs and she is safe.”_

_Disgust rolls through your body and you clench your fists so tight your nails leave imprints into your palms. “You’re serious? You could have gotten her out this morning— but what? You kept her as collateral? For me?”_

_“It’s working, isn’t it?” Her flat tone is impossibly irritating. She sits on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs, one hand splayed out, the other in her lap. “What do you say?”_

_Part of you wants so badly to call her a bitch and storm out of this whole damn country. But the other part of you knows that her—and her boss, handler, organization, whatever—that they are the only thing that can make this go away. Their price was high, or low, maybe, because they’re right—you don’t have anything but the empty life you live. Scenarios color your mind, replacing the monotony of your current civilian lifestyle with one a bit more purposeful, more dangerous._

_Perhaps, one more like Natasha’s._

_You stretch, put on a friendly smile, and play her imitation game. If she wants you to be some top-secret spy, you might as well get in a good practice round of manipulation._

_Regarding her posture, you smirk. “You’re good, you know that? Hostage sister aside,” You muse, leaning forward to flick a pretty scarlet curl from her cheek, “All dolled up- mysterious and demure, raspy voice and curls. You get a lot of male marks, Natasha? You’re here to sweeten the deal for me, aren’t you?”_

_As if you’ve activated her, Natasha takes your chin into her hand and hovers her lips over your own. Her breath, sweet, warm, inviting, flutters over your mouth with a promise, “Believe me, I can be very sweet. Or not, depending on your mood.”_

_Quick as a whip, you grab her throat with your hand. “Tell me the truth.” You whisper as her eyes widen, “Did you set me up?” Her hand comes up to fight, but you command her to be still, just like you did in the warehouse. She’s shaking so hard the bed rattles with her. “Don’t struggle,” You say plainly, “You’ll hurt yourself.”_

_“N-No.” She chokes, “I d-didn’t set you up. We were tracking your family too—caught it before the media. SHIELD sent me here undercover before you even knew.”_

_You stare at her a couple more seconds, not because you don’t believe her, but because you want her to truly feel that digging worm in her brain. Then, almost softly, you release your grip and press your cheek against her own, “It’s a deal, Natasha.”_

_Natasha sits back and blinks the haze from her head. You watch her slowly dial out from the hostel phone and she speaks a couple of words in Russian. When she turns back to you, receiver clunking with a finish, she smiles— mask back on. You turn to the last page of the packet and sign your name, not bothering to look through the terms of engagement. Whatever they may be, you’ve already decided:_

_A ghost for a ghost. JJ will be returned to your parents. You now belong to SHIELD._

_They do as Natasha promises— and more. You are wiped from the world, every trace of you gone. The organization recreates your identity, trains you viciously, and eight months later, you run missions with the best of them. In two years, Fury has you installed into the Avengers Team, to run point with Natasha and keep him informed. He’s a mean son of a bitch but you respect him anyway because he gives you a life that’s just a tiny bit more meaningful than the one you’ve previously had. More than that, he’s given you peace of mind because he anonymously, and graciously, pays for Josephine’s therapy, something your parents would have never been able to afford._

_By the time you’re with the Avengers, he tells you that she’s as healthy as a girl who’s been kidnapped can be. He even gives you her school pictures. You don’t let him see the tears in your eyes right before you shred them._

_—_

The room shifts uncomfortably as Steve looks from Natasha to you. He’s wondering what else is missing from this story. Bucky has other things on his mind.

“You erased yourself from your sister’s memory.” He mutters.

“Yes.” You admit, “But it’s not always perfect. Josephine remembered me twice- after seeing me. Then once more on her own. Each time took longer than the last.”

“And your parents?”

You shrug. “They didn’t want to remember, it seems. They never have. Never will.”

A bitter edge of resentment clings to your words. Steve digests all that you’ve told them, taking in your firm mouth, clenched hands. Recognition begins to spark in his mind, threads of it coming together to complete the rope that leads him to you. Natasha’s eyes are fixed ahead vacantly, she’s putting on a brave face but he can sense that something else is hovering over them. Bucky speaks up next.

“You _are_ the chair, aren’t you?” He whispers.

“This is why HYDRA wants you.” Bruce says finally, voice a little hoarse, “I thought it didn’t make any sense… but it’s obvious now. Their plan is to use you… to erase him. Maybe others, too.”

“Yeah. I _got_ that.” You clench your jaw. It’s the thing you’ve been avoiding—when they question you about the mesh in the lab. It’s been a thought you’ve had, but there was nothing to be done about it until now. Until they took her. She is all you can think about. The little ghost that’s not supposed to be a ghost anymore. Caught again.

“You don’t think _to tell me that_?” Bucky nearly shouts, jerking you from your thoughts. “All this time?!”

“ _You_ are not my concern right now, Barnes!” You stand, throwing the remote across the room and it shatters against the wall, a mere foot from his head.

“Not your concern?” He whispers, flinching more from your statement then the shrapnel of plastic that lie by his feet. Bucky takes a step forward and motions to your shirt—his shirt, “Not your concern, sweetheart?” He asks again, softer this time. Hurt.

Bruce narrows his eyes confusedly and looks over to Natasha and Steve, who both shake their heads. Bucky begins to laugh softly before putting up both his hands. “This is fucked.” He says, “You are _fucked_. I’m done. I’m not your toy, and I’m not your fucking plaything. You will _not_ get inside my head again.”

The statement is loaded in its double-meaning. He doesn’t bother to shut the door as he storms out. You watch him go impassively, shoving the hurricane that roars to life in your mind down until all you see and feel again is Josephine. You will not let yourself get distracted. She is _all_ you have in this piece of shit world, and you _will_ keep her safe.

The remaining three either are ignorant to your trembling jaw or they’re smart enough to say nothing, so you continue. “I’m going to Amsterdam because that’s where she is. Natasha, wherever it was that you found her at last time. Take me there.”

“They’re going to ambush you. It’s a trap.” Steve warns.

“No shit, Sherlock.” You snap, “But she is my _sister_. I’m going to get her, and I’m going to kill everyone else.” You pause, feeling your eyes burn with fatigue as you stare hard at Steve. It’s not presumptuous of you to make the next statement because you know him well enough to assume he’s not sitting this out. But the ferocity and finality of what you say catches him off guard, nonetheless

“And if they get _me_ , then you better kill me too.” 

-

Steve nearly jumps out of his skin when Natasha calls his name softly from the shadows of his room. Whirling around, suit half on, he squints through the dark at her. She’s strapped head-to-toe, sleek in black leather and neoprene.

Stepping forward, the light from his walk-in closet where he stands illuminates her features bit by bit until Steve can see the trembling bottom lip, quivering as if they were floodgates nearly breaking. He stuffs his arms into his suit, encloses the right straps, zips the right zippers.

“What is it?” He whispers.

“I need to tell you the truth about Amsterdam.”

And the floodgates break open, spilling the secret she’s kept for the last five years. It crashes into him, rocking his entire being as he listens to her hoarse voice cutting in and out from the emotional strain.

Amsterdam _was_ a set up.

HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD already, and Project Insight was the design that tracked you, that took your sister, that recruited you from the fallout.

If Fury had known, he hadn’t told Natasha. She only discovered later on, but by that time, it was too late. You had forfeited your life to them in good faith, months deep, running missions, even cracking jokes at her. She debated with herself, but when she felt like it could have possibly been a good time, other disasters occurred. New York. Ultron. Barnes.

Eventually, Natasha slipped away from SHIELD almost altogether and when it fell, you were installed into the Avengers with her. By then, if she were to tell you, there would be no place for your anger to go except straight through Natasha Romanoff.

She had resigned herself to the truth: it was a secret she would take to the grave, until now.

“It will come up.” Natasha mutters, “Before the end of it, _Name_ will find out.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” Steve assures her, but she shakes her head.

“But now it’s not just _me_ , Steve. Now it’s you. Now it’s Barnes. Now… it’s her whole life.”

He cocks his head, not quite understanding. Natasha’s eyes are glazed over as she stares off into the corner of his closet at nothing. “She’s a lot of bark, but the bite will come sooner or later. We need to be expecting it.”

 

She slips away just as silently as she arrived, leaving Steve with the thoughts she implanted in his head. He scrubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. It’s too late for this, he thinks. Literally and figuratively. It’s too late a time of night for a mission. It’s too late for Natasha to own up to a mistake. Too late for him to insert himself as anyone of significance to you—to reel you back in. Too late for Bucky, even, wherever he may be. Steve had F.R.I.D.A.Y. search the compound, but Barnes had left long ago.

Steve checks his phone out of habit one last time before heading towards the hangar. He’s missed three calls from Sharon. _Shit._

He groans as the guilt settles inside of him. That was the one thing he may have jumped the gun on too _early_.

Sighing, he resigns too, placing it in his pocket. He’ll apologize to Sharon the right way when he comes back, he thinks, if any of you come back from this mission at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think of this chapter. Where did Bucky go? I have no idea, but he is not a happy camper! :o


	14. No Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the turbulence of your vengeance, there is a moment where everything stills. This is just a taste of that moment.

There’s no plan.

You stomp around the hangar and twist your hair in your fists. There’s no fucking plan. Last time they shot you out of the sky and tortured you. Taking the jet again is just asking for a round two of waterboarding.

Tony and Sam had returned to the compound, getting caught up with the others as you cleaned your pistols and sharpened your knives. Then they argue with Steve and Natasha out of your earshot because you’re as stable as nitroglycerin in a blender and your whole world is liquefying.

The safest route would be to stay back and let the others extract JJ. But if that purple-eyed bastard has planned for this, then you’d be splitting up into two weaker groups rather than facing him as one cohesive group.

But if he _gets_ you, then the group is finished. Squashed like ants under your boot.

You had sent _Hulk_ back inside Banner just an hour ago. Hulk, reduced to an ant.

The route you want to take is to get there yourself, grab Josephine, and then burn it all down. Blow the ashes into the night sky. Maybe you’d be there, too, scattering against the constellations. You don’t care anymore.

Your hands shake. Your head hurts. Your body feels like it could fall apart if you let it and you were _doing so fucking well._ You haven’t felt like this in weeks and it was enough for you to think you’d never have to again. Your teeth click against each other as you rattle like a fucking screen door in a hurricane.

It’s too much. It’s too fucking much. You’re on the cusp of a mental breakdown or something of the like when Tony marches into the hangar and claps his hands together.

“I have a wizard.”

“What?” You ask, not in the mood for his theatrics.

“The wizard is Strange.”

“What?” You repeat, clenching your hands into fists.

“Woah! Easy, tiger. His name is Strange, Stephen Strange. He’s gonna teleport you there. Take getting shot out of the sky from the equation.”

You twitch— remembering the incident of Stephen Strange popping his head and impeccably groomed lawn of a beard through your wall with a brusque ask: “Stark?” and you, nearly drop-kicking his ass back to wherever the hell he came from.

Your heart leaps because this is some Deus ex Machina shit and you’re on board for it. Tony looks over your keen expression with a scornful narrowing of his eyes, “I’ll only do it, kid—“ He’s taking aim and you feel like he’s getting ready to shoot you down. “If you stick to the plan.”

\--

Of course you don’t listen. Of course you don’t.

Steve is hot on your heels as you try to lose him—maybe, he thinks, or maybe you just don’t give a shit or you don’t even know he’s there.

Strange had shown up in the hangar, walking through the sizzling oval of his own creation and stared at all of you. Steve. You. Tony. Natasha. Sam. Bruce. All lined up like little toy soldiers ready to fight. You tell him you’re going first with such ferocity that no one challenges you.

She’s _your_ sister, after all.

The wizard pulls a new hole out of thin air, into a dark field a few miles west and you leap like a hurdler, landing in something wet, saying something indecipherable. They think it’s a curse because of the splashing against your shoe but then Strange begins to stutter and jerk, eyes widening in surprise and Steve knows it’s you.

Faster than the rest, he leaps too, landing in wet grass before the orange sparks zip themselves shut and he meets the inky darkness of the night.

In the distance, you’re running faster than he’s ever seen you run before. Lucky for Steve, his legs are longer but that doesn’t mean the chase isn’t hard.

He cannot lose you here, he thinks, as his feet beat relentlessly against the Earth.

Eventually he catches up to you, just over a mile of sprinting. You’ve stopped and kneeled behind the trunk of a wide tree. Your hands pat your thighs, sides, boots, just to make sure all your weapons are still in place. Even in the dark and in the shadow cast by the foliage beneath the full moon, Steve can see your hands shaking.

“_Name_,” he whispers. He had been so frustrated, but your trembling snuffed out his fury and he’s back there again. In the tiny studio, on the chair that you said had been too small for him. He’s in the compound kitchen, too, holding onto your waist as you grip his hand. He knows you’re cracking open and falling apart without the safety net of your destruction—not yet, at least.

Two trails of tears slip out of your eyes and Steve wipes them for you, kneeling until his knees knock into your own. You catch his wrist with a scoff and push him away but he’s back again when another trail escapes. It makes you angry, so you push him. But he’s as big as a fucking car and doesn’t budge.

“_Name_,” he calls again, “I’m here. It’s okay.”

“It’s not fucking okay.” You hiss, squeezing your eyes shut. “Nothing is fucking _okay_! She—she’s already _gone through this_ , goddamn it! She’s just a fucking _kid—_ a human person! She’s not.. she’s—” It’s a struggle to keep your voice from rising too high— full of hiccuping vowels and slurred consonants. When you exhale, it comes out as half a groan— wet and strained.

You’ve thought about it the entire night—having to face her again, and having to erase her, again. Your little sister could never return to normalcy if you didn’t. She had to already live with the experience of being kidnapped and held—as a _child_ —in captivity, waiting to be sold as some depraved pedophile’s fucktoy. She had to relearn her normalcy with therapy. And now, five years later, how could she go back after being stolen a second time?

You want to die because it’s _you_ who is putting her through this.

“It’s not your fault.” Steve murmurs, as if reading your mind. His fingers touch your chin and soon become drenched as you feel yourself falling apart. It hurts all over, as the most excruciating pain you’ve ever known pitches you forward against Steve’s chest, overrun with grief and guilt. It feels like your ribs have punctured through your lungs. Like the blood is poison and slowly seeping all over the rest of your body.

He lets you cry. He lets you spill out in his arms as he scans past the treeline, devising a way to sneak past the last mile and into the warehouse ahead. It’s likely overrun with guards and if they see you coming, the both of you are done for.

Finally, you wipe your tears and sit back against the trunk, eyes swollen and red, glad your companion is all business tonight as you watch him peer out into the darkness. You don’t think you’d be able to take it if he says anything else.

But, as always, Steve manages to prove you wrong.

He pulls you up and pushes your back again into the tree.

“Listen to me.”

“Is this important?” You ask, bewildered.

“This is how we get in, _Name_.” He urges, stepping impossibly closer. It makes you want to back up even more, but you’re already flushed, and the bark is digging into your suit. “You did something to me in the conference room.”

Steve implores you silently for any semblance of stability. “You compelled me without speaking.” He calls you again, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. “Your powers— your abilities, they’re changing. We don’t know the consequences yet, and we don’t have time--” he looks around at your surroundings—wooded, dark, humming with rubbing insect wings.

“For right now, I need you to trust _me_. I need you to let me lead. We can figure everything else out later.”

Under the moonlight, his eyes are enormous silver dollars, gleaming earnestly. Your brain feels like a fistful of scrambled eggs, but he has faith in this, and he has faith in you.

 

“Make me move.” He commands.

So, you do, because you need his leadership. He’s never led you astray, and you’re not stubborn enough to fight him just out of principle. Not now. And not when he’s followed your suicide mission into what feels like the fucking pits of hell.

The thought comes into your mind like a whisper. Slowly, Steve takes a step away. You think about it again, and he steps back to where he was, pressed up against you.

“Stop.” His hand shoots up to grab your chin, turning your face to peek. “Something’s wrong.”

He turns you again and leans in so close you can feel his breath on your jaw. “Left eye.” He murmurs, “Popped blood vessel.”

Your eyelids flutter in an attempt to feel for it, but nothing registers, and you shake your head lightly, turning his hand along. Steve looks again to assess the damage, and the entire world seems to still. Nothing left but the inky disk of his irises, alight with moonbeams. The air hangs between the two of you, heavy with unspoken words, a blessed tourniquet to let you forget for a second that out of the handful of people you care for in your entire life, two of them might die, and you might too.

He steps back again, eyes downcast.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself doing this. But I don’t think we have a choice, do we?”

 _No_. You think. _I’ll blind myself in both eyes if it means she’s safe_.

-

It’s the most careful you’ve ever been on a mission. Your skin prickles with apprehension as you move through the trees, reaching closer to your destination. Steve, in front of you, is almost effortlessly graceful—and if you weren’t so focused on your own feet, you might have complimented him. For his size, he is impressively quiet. It’s always been hard and fast, shouting commands and casting your compulsion, firing every gun you have. But this time, as you follow Steve, the whispers in your mind are soft and deliberate.

You tried it on him, Steve, just once. Because he’s afraid of the consequences. You pull the words from your brain, the feeling from your chest, and instead of a command, you begin to suggest with your mind. As he turned to the sky, your thoughts asked him _look at the moon, isn’t it beautiful?_

And his mouth replied. “Moon’s full tonight. Beautiful.”

Then he licked his lips, gently closed his eyes, inhaled deeply with a smile.

When he turned to you, the smile shifted. “That was good. Let’s go.”

So, you follow him through the dark and come upon the first guard, rifle leaned against his shoulder, walking a slow trail towards the warehouse. Steve motions forward and you swallow.

_Something’s moving in the forest. Go look._

The body stops walking, glances back suddenly a few times, and slowly makes its way into the trees. It happens three more times, deliberate moves in a high-stakes game of chess. The two of you weave through the ranks, timing your movements, tiptoeing like cat burglars.

The last guard by the door gets sent off.

You and Steve take his place and The Captain crushes the doorknob in his hand. He turns to make sure you’re inside and a grimace passes over his features. You can only imagine what your eye looks like now under the fluorescent hallway light because you begin to feel the throb.

Steve sets his mouth in a firm line.

“That bad, huh?” You whisper with a smile— anything to get him to stop looking so sad.

“Keep going.” He’s stoic in reply, stepping ahead of you and peeking out from the corner. “Two at the end of the hall. Do you think you can reach them?”

You nod and try, feeling a sharpness pressing into the back of your skull. It’s not unlike the onset of a migraine— slow, twisting, a tiny pinprick at first that seems to spread over your cornea and the rest of your face. Steve watches as you lean against the wall and breathe through your mouth, squinting.

“Hey, you gotta piss?” One voice says in the distance. The hallway is long. Steve is both surprised and worried that you’re able to reach so far.

“Yeah, actually.” And then the footsteps clatter away. Steve waits until it’s completely silent before he turns and places his hand over your face, pulling down your eyelid to inspect it. The light that goes in makes your head spin and you blink as a sudden wave of nausea hits. The room wobbles and blurs like a mirage.

“We’re not doing that again.” he says firmly, and you try to nod but it feels like your brain is being shaken loose. “Shit.” He curses when you stumble, catching your head with one hand and your shoulder with the other. He holds the rest of you up by pressing himself against your limp body, stares down at the way your skull is lolled back, resting in his palm.

Panic clutches him.

“What do I do?” He whispers, when your eyes begin blinking uncontrollably. Your mouth hangs open. Your chest rises and falls in shallow breaths. It looks like you’re having a mild seizure and Steve swears to every God if you die here in this dirty warehouse in his arms, he would start a war. He would rip the buyer’s head from his neck and fucking shred it. He’s shaking along with you, dropping to his knees, whispering your name over and over again. There’s a brief thought that passes over his fear—an understanding. Yes, he sees now, how the grief turned you so vengeful and cruel.

Your body shudders again, even harder. Tears roll out of the corners of your eyes.

“Oh god. _Name_. Oh goddamn it!” Steve begs, “Please. Please, not like this. Not here. Not yet.”

Suddenly you stop and the world seems to as well. The blinking slows to a sluggish and sleepy speed, and you stir lucid. You squeeze your eyes shut once more before you look up at him. Steve Rogers has tears in his eyes and his arms are clamped around you so tightly you think he was trying to crush you. Something still hurts, but you don’t know how you got on the ground, or in his lap.

You call his name in confusion. Raise your hand up to touch the side of his face but he takes it in his own instead, leaning down hurriedly and envelopes your mouth in his. Steve kisses you, achingly hard, hungry, as if he might never do it again. “Oh god,” he mutters against your lips. “I thought you—“

Then he sits up, shocked at himself, and leaps to his feet. “I’m sorry.” He pulls you up as well and turns around until you can no longer see his face. “Sorry.” He says again. “We gotta— go—“

But you’re up now too, launching yourself off the wall and crashing your lips onto his when he turns around. You need that sensation again. His scent. His softness. His mouth. The exact thing you’ve been yearning for. Years and years. Your whole life, it feels like.

Steve thinks he has all the power on the surface, in control of everything. Until he doesn’t. Until you overflow and strip it from him like a flash flood over loose soil. Sometimes, he willingly lets it go and dissolves in you.

So, he doesn’t pull away this time. He wraps his arms tighter around, squeezing, hands climbing all over your back and sides. His lips are warm, tongue sweet and wet, he sucks the breath from your lungs and then buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“Later.” Steve mumbles when he recollects himself again, placing you on your feet again. “Not now. We—after this-- after this, okay?.” He kisses your mouth one more time and pulls your hand along. It’s a seal for the promise, you think.

The two of you move forward, pushing the ephemeral harmony away.

-

Gunfire erupts when Steve turns a corner too hastily. He’s impatient now, having a reason to be finished early, but he curses himself when a bullet flies past the wall and whirrs to life as it crushes itself through the plaster.

He pushes you back, arm’s length away. “There are five. I see the buyer. I see Josephine. You need to stay calm.”

Yelling comes from the room and your blood pounds in your ears. You can hear her—Josephine. Crying. Steve can hear it too. And he can see the fear and wrath in the way you grind your teeth.

He grabs your hands. “Listen to me.” He says quietly. “You are capable of love. There is love in your heart because I can see it. I see the way you love your sister. You don’t think so—“

 _Fuck_ , you think, when the tears burn your already fucked up eyes. It sounds like a eulogy. It sounds like he’s saying goodbye and you start to shake your head because you can’t bear to hear another word.

“_Name_, you deserve to be loved.” Maybe it’s delirium, or a hallucination, maybe it’s a wish. You think his eyes say: _And you deserve to be loved by me._

There’s no time to think about this now, both of you realize. But Steve needs you to understand him because if he returns without you tonight, Bucky might go to war too. He turns around and sends one last pensive look over his shoulder before thrusting his shield forward. Walking slowly behind it, Steve lets the first few bullets ricochet off. The firing halts with a command from the buyer, and you step out too, standing next to your Captain.

“Darling! It’s about time you joined the party!”

 _He_ stands over JJ, pistol against her ear with a smile, swinging another mesh helmet in his other hand. Your world is blurring when JJ’s eyes meet yours in a pleading, watery stare. There’s no recognition there, and you briefly thank God before cursing him again.

“Don’t you just _love_ her?” his voice is asking, “Cute as a button! I’d hate to send a bullet in her brain. You know what to do.”

Steve whispers “No!” but you’re advancing too quickly for him to even grab your arm. “No!” He yells louder. You tell him to fall, and he does. Josephine looks on in terror as Captain America is reduced to a helpless stump, shaking and crying out for you to stop.

Every step you take is like stepping on coals. You’re about ready to vomit, but providentially, somehow you keep it in. When you get close enough, the buyer cocks his head to the side and squints.

“What did you do to your eyes, my love?”

“Cut that pet name shit out; I don’t even know you. Tell me about _your_ eyes, you eggplant motherfucker.”

He fakes a scandalized expression and pressed the hand with the mesh to his chest. “Don’t know me?” He laughs, “No, I can’t blame you. Of course, you don’t remember. But _I_ know _you_. And I know _her._ ” The barrel of the gun taps against Josephine’s forehead and she whimpers each time it connects with her skin.

“You were both much younger than—as was I. All of us, weak little playthings in the bigger game. But look at you now. You’re the big fish, aren’t you? Avenger and all. Captain America’s got your back now. And the Soldier… what a talent he is. That’s alright. They’ll both be my playthings soon.”

The idea of either of them being his playthings rise like bile in your mouth. Although, you’re glad he’s no longer asking about your eyes. This guy really loves hearing his own voice, you think, as with all bad guys. But you start to ransack through your memories at his declaration, trying to find any indication that would take you to where you know him from. A time when all three of you were younger—you, him, Josephine.

It clicks.

With a short nod of his head, two of the five men in the room move forward and press their rifles against your back. “Is that your gun or are you guys just really happy to see me?” You quip derisively.

“Aw! There’s that bravado I remember! Even when you were--”

“Yeah, I know you. Flip flops bitch.” You mutter. “Amsterdam. I got it.”

“No!” To you, the roar of his voice is nothing compared to the click of the pistol as it pushes harder against your sister’s face. He steps in front of her now, shoving the weapon between her eyes as she cries weakly. “That moron was _nothing_! Too thoughtless! Spent all his damn resources on whores and cocaine!” He snarls and takes in a breath through his clenched teeth. The rifles against your waist click quietly too, as you’re driven further toward him.

He chatters on about Amsterdam—sex trafficking, prostitution, kidnapping tourists and young girls. All you think about is Josephine. She meets your eyes as you advance, and you don’t know if there’s any way for you to reassure her. It doesn’t help that you look like a horror-scene extra with an entire left sclera teeming with blood and the right one eager to catch up.

“I’m so disappointed that your sister doesn’t share your ability. This thing is useless on her. Might still hurt though.”

Josephine whips up, “What?” She says softly. Then she faces you again, blinking, just _blinking_. “What?” Like a looped message. She repeats it again and again. “What?”

Steve is screaming behind you pleading that you _stick to the plan_. That you _don’t fall for his words_. There is too much panic inside of you at the sight of Josephine’s overwhelmed face. She is searching, and realizing, seeing the reflection of herself in your features.

The buyer steps behind her and levels his gun to the back of her skull, as if ready to execute. But then, he moves his arm in a half-circle shape and sends a bullet through your shoulder. It comes out from your back clean and you spurt blood from both sides. “Just because you really hurt my feelings.” He smiles.

Red coats the right side of your suit. Drips down onto the concrete floor. One man behind you grabs you by the hair and pushes onward, past your stumbling feet. You’ve been shot before, so you grit your teeth and continue despite the loss and searing pain as your arm spasms and falls limp. They pull your arms backwards— _motherfucker­! It hurts_ and chain your wrists together, pushing you to your knees in front of Josephine’s sprawled out body. “Sister?” She whispers when they shove a towel into your mouth, effectively gagging you.

Needles pierce straight into your gushing wound. The drugs are administered, and you feel yourself lean backwards—already woozy. They hold you up and inject you _five_ more times. He’s still rambling on about his rise to power or whatever, and you remember now: in the warehouse, by the cage, the three men who came in and shot at you.

He was the one who understood English and fell behind.

You want to say _you gotta be kidding me, dude._ Because it really is just the fucking worst kind of villain origin story you can imagine. This tiny fraction of coincidence evolved inside of an insignificant minion and now he’s turned into your literal nightmares. There are many words stronger than hate, and you do feel them for him, because he’s dangling JJ in front of you.

But more than anything, you feel _tired_. Tired of Amsterdam. Tired of HYDRA. Tired of this banal little narrative. Your body is literally crashing.

He holds his arm out and the one to your left comes and injects him too. Immediately, the lavender hue of his eyes erupts into vivid purple.

As soon as you’re slumped on the floor, breathing in the speckles of dust as the room spins, he’s there with the crown and the mesh glides a burning trail back onto your head. You can tell by the distant sound of his chuckling that he thinks he’s won.

On the cusp of oblivion, you send out a silent invocation, and the two guards closest to you take aim and shoot each other’s skulls open. Steve is on his feet in an instant, smashing his shield into the three others, twirling with momentum off the walls and slamming all his weight into the last guard before he takes off in a sprint toward you.

The room is too blurry. You feel upside down and inside out.

 _Go to sleep_ , you think, reaching your mind out to Josephine. But it goes nowhere like a lost child before returning to you, hands spread with confusion. There’s only darkness when you try again. There’s darkness and crooked shapes of speckled dust and you fall into the abyss until JJ’s shriek pulls you out.

He’s kicked the toe of his boot into your cheek, and the sharpness of it has split your face open. You can hardly feel it, so intoxicated by the drugs flowing through your blood. Steve’s too slow. They were harsher than either of you anticipated—changing from four to seven injections. Steve thinks if you don’t die from blood loss, you might die from the overdose.

Your body clambers to stand and you can only make it to your knees when the buyer presses his finger to his ear.

“Move, Captain, and they’re _both_ dead.”

Turning, you see him behind you, so close he could probably reach out and yank the mesh off. But it whirrs to life, and suddenly, the legs that were just moments before too wobbly to support your weight shifts. Your feet plant on the ground, left first, then right, and you stand.

It’s horrifying, the way red gushes from your face and down your neck. Steve doesn’t know where it’s coming from—your forehead, cheek, or your eyes. Your shoulder is ripped open, too. His stomach clenches, teeth gnashing together. He could cry, probably.

You step up to him, and the buyer laughs again behind you gleefully. Steve falls to his knees once more, surrendering. Your fingers hook into the eyes of his helmet and you slowly peel it off before running your other hand through his hair, the blood running down your shoulder plopping into his scalp. He knows you’re gone now. He knows he will be too.

Steve Rogers takes a deep breath, leans back, pretends the way your palm rubs against his temple is loving. He would be alright if this is the last thing he convinces himself to remember.

Suddenly, a bullet streaks through the room and plants itself into the buyer’s wrist.

Another one flies by, embedding into his shoulder, a mirror reflection of your own wound. The gun he holds clatters onto the ground and JJ scrambles to kick it away.

Bucky’s heavy footsteps storm in, echoing as he furiously crosses the room. His rifle is in his hands, boots thundering against the concrete as he steps over dead bodies and slams the butt of his rifle into the dealer’s stomach- knocking the wind out of him. Then he reaches down and digs into his ear, producing a little black bud—the remote to your brain’s T.V.

“Don’t look.” He tells JJ, who obeys immediately, turning around and covering her eyes.

Steve takes this moment to stretch the mesh out before pulling it from you. He helps you stand, letting your arm fall over his shoulder and holding onto your waist.

The buyer is howling, clutching his side and mangled wrist. “It’s not supposed to be like this!” He screams. “I _worked for this!”_ Useless words. “My whole _life! All for her!”_

Bucky leans over and takes the discarded pistol, flexing his arm straight to take aim. There is no head-to-head boss fight here. There is no heroic climatic clash of strength or willpower. Bucky Barnes is not that type of motherfucker. He flicks a strand of hair from his eyes and raises an eyebrow at the sniveling at his feet, at the clawing of one good human hand and another shredded and broken, flopping thing. Bucky’s mouth pulls itself into a lopsided expression of disgust.

“She doesn’t even know your name, asshole.”

He unloads the entire cartridge into the wailing man’s face until its reduced to a smashed, red grape. Until the skull is nothing but bits and pieces of a dropped ceramic vase. Until the purple eyes are detached from their veins and turn black. Until the membrane of skin and muscle becomes a gummy and squelching pool. Bucky throws the now-useless pistol into the red pile.

Josephine shakes with each deafening echo, and part of him feels somewhat sad for her as a casualty of this enormous vengeance. Then he turns around and looks at your limp body, pouring all over Steve’s side—and his friend’s eyes, pouring tears, too.

-

 

The two sisters are asleep when the plane lifts off. Bucky punches in the coordinates and lets F.R.I.D.A.Y do the rest as he goes to Steve who is faithfully by your side, clutching your hand like a lifesaver. Back at the compound, Dr. Cho has been called into the hangar to wait for them to land. But for now, the supplies he’s packed onto the jet will have to do. Bucky pretends not to see the way Steve links his fingers through yours and clutches his other hand over both of them.

You’re wrapped up in gauze almost entirely from head to torso. Steve has even covered your eyes in it, which still weep scarlet even as you sleep. Bucky doesn’t know what happened after he scooped up Josephine in his arms. You had looked up at her, smiled a broken little lift of your lips, and at the same time another vein exploded in your right eye, Josephine’s head dropped backwards.

“Thanks, Buck.” Steve whispers, “How’d you get here so fast?”

Bucky frowns. “You forget Romanoff and I have a past too. She sent me the location after I left.”

With a slight hum and another concerned puff of air, Steve falls silent again and squeezes your hand tighter almost to the point where his knuckles turn white.

“So can we agree that the mission’s closed now?” Bucky mutters, “I ain’t doing this write up. What’s to write? Everyone’s dead.”

Steve swallows, “Hopefully not everyone.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (deep sigh) We journey on, dear readers. Thanks for sticking with me!


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